


Still

by lavvyan



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Danny Williams Has No Chill, Declarations Of Love, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Questionable Plot, Reluctant Discussion of Feelings, Romance, Steve McGarrett Needs a Hug, also:, far too many author's notes, smoothies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2018-02-27
Packaged: 2019-03-17 08:29:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13655271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavvyan/pseuds/lavvyan
Summary: "Listen to me, because I won't say this again. Okay? I will spell this out for you, this once, and then we'll never talk about it again." He'd taken a deep breath. "You're my best friend. My daughter loves you. All right? You, you're family. This," he'd waved a hand between them, "this is solid, you get that? Huh? It doesn't change because you're a little more important to me than I thought."Danny loves Steve. Steve loves Danny, but not that way. Danny's mostly fine with that.Well. Until people start dying and Steve might be next. Danny's emphaticallynotfine with that. And Steve is forced to reexamine his feelings, but hey. At least Danny does most of the talking.





	1. Does It Say Pineapple on the Label?

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. ~~I did my best, but I am _not_ a native speaker and thus the tenses at the beginning might still be a little bit... wonky. Sorry. Past perfect is not my forte. Neither is patience, so this hasn't been beta-read. Again, sorry.~~ Looking back, I see how this kind of implies I don't know the language very well. This amuses me to no end, for a variety of reasons. Please be assured that I know how to English.  <3
> 
> 2\. Lynn who? (I keep ignoring her, and I do feel bad about it because I'm sure she's a wonderful person, but working yet another break-up into the story seemed like more effort than it was worth, seeing that it would only pile more heartache on Steve, the poor man.)
> 
> 3\. This is set some time after 8x11, but includes very few spoilers for season 8. All the same, if you haven't watched that far, read at your own risk. All episodes after 8x11 will be ignored, so consider this a close-to-canon AU.
> 
> 4\. **There is explicit violence and death in chapter 1.** If that is a thing that triggers you, please have someone you trust vet the story first. If you don't have anyone to do that for you but still want to read this, find and message me on Tumblr and I'll send you a sanitized version of the first chapter. 
> 
> 5\. If you're a long-time reader: I solemnly swear to finish this story. For reals. I have an outline and everything. Third time's the charm, right? Right.

Sometimes, Danny wonders where he'd be today if a parking garage hadn't fallen on his head four years ago. 

It had been a perfect summary of how his life had gone off the rails since Steve had taken it over, because shit like that just didn't happen in Jersey. Kidnappings, yes. The occasional shoot-out, of course. Murders, eighty-seven of them, otherwise there would be little need for a homicide detective. But international terrorists, biological weapons, _nuclear_ fucking weapons, and parking garages that fell on people's heads? 

Of those, Jersey had had exactly none. Which is why Jersey was, and continues to be, superior to Hawaii in practically every way, except his daughter isn't there, or his son, or his goof of a partner. 

And yes, Steve is a part of that reasoning, because four years ago? After a parking garage had fallen on their heads and Steve had exploded their way out again, after being pulled up and checked out and Steve making him say the words, yes, those three little words that had made his heart beat faster when he'd heard Steve say them under all that rubble; after all of that, Danny'd had a little bit of a brain freeze.

He'd looked at Amber and yes, she was lovely, she was a wonderful woman who liked him, possibly even loved him, but. 

But. 

But she wasn't Steve, and if his latest near-death experience had taught him anything, it was that he fucking loved Steve. Loved him from the bottom of his heart. Loved him blind. He'd known that Steve was important to him; of course he had, why else would he have done even half the shit he'd done for, or with, that guy? Thing was, he might have slightly, just a little, underestimated just how important, and maybe it had been leftover adrenaline, but in the aftermath of all that, he hadn't been able to keep those, those _feelings_ to himself. 

So he'd driven over to Steve's despite the ache in his side from where a piece of rebar had torn through him, had knocked on the door until a disheveled Steve had opened it, and had spilled it all out in one giant mess right there on Steve's doorstep.

"Tell me to stay," he'd said, the words rushing out of him like he might choke on them if he gave himself time to think, "tell me to forget about Maui and Amber and, and all the reasons this is a bad idea, god," he'd laughed, dragging an unsteady hand through his hair, " _such_ a bad idea, but Steve. Babe." One deep breath and out with it, out, "Tell me to forget about all that and I will. I... I will, okay? If you tell me..."

And then he'd broken off, because Steve was looking at him with this... this face, like Danny was performing open-heart surgery on him without anesthesia, all hurt and confusion and willing him to just _stop._

"You want me to ask you... to stay," he'd said slowly. His brows had been drawn together, but his eyes had been huge, dark and deep and... and absolutely fucking terrified. 

In that moment, Danny had known what the answer would be. Had known it, and still, "I want you to ask me to stay."

Because he'd already laid it all out, hadn't he; put his heart out for Steve to take or reject, and knowing that Steve would reject it wasn't the same as hearing him say it. Danny needed to hear it needed it to be done and over so maybe they could move on from this clusterfuck of a day.

The silence had dragged on between them. Danny had stood still, watching, as Steve jerked in one deep breath after another only to let it out again, wordless. Steve's fingers had dug into the door jamb as if it were the only thing holding Steve up. It had been one of the most awful moments of Danny's life.

Then Steve had swallowed and blinked a few times and said, "I can't... Danny. I can't do that."

His voice had been hoarse but gentle, and Danny's own breath had left him in a rush.

Part of him had known that this was the only way their conversation could go. Had known that somewhere in Steve's house, Cath was waiting for him. That Steve would die for Danny if he had to, if that meant Danny could go home to Grace, but that this one thing was too much to ask.

He'd known it, and he'd asked anyway because maybe, just maybe, if Steve just loved him _enough_...

God, he was an asshole.

He'd taken a deep breath, nodded, and taken a step back.

And Steve, the big idiot, had taken a step forward. "Danny."

"Don't."

_Don't come closer. Don't be kind. Don't feel bad about this, 'cause it'll only make me feel worse._

But when had Steve ever listened to him?

"Danny," he'd said again, voice still so fucking gentle, "I love you, I do. I really... You have to know that."

And what could Danny have done but nod, because of course he knew that. Didn't doubt it for a second, even now, with his heart up for grabs and Steve so clearly not grabbing. After all, the bone-deep certainty that Steve loved him had been what made him ask for... whatever he'd been asking for.

"Yeah, I know." His smile had felt almost natural on his face. "But not that way."

And to his own surprise, he'd been, well, not okay with that, not really, but certain that he'd get there. Eventually. Yes, he'd wanted Steve to himself, forever and a day, till death do them fucking part, and yes, he'd been hurting, and no, he hadn't wanted to share him with Cath, hadn't wanted to see her have what he couldn't, but he would. He would, because Cath had been his friend as well and Steve had loved her, in a way he couldn't love Danny, and in the end, what Danny had wanted most of all was for Steve to be happy.

"Not that way," Steve had echoed. He'd looked so miserable, like this was hurting him just as much, and Danny had hated himself a little for putting that expression on Steve's face. He'd never wanted to be the reason for that expression on Steve's face. 

"Babe. It's okay." At Steve's doubtful glance, Danny'd added, "Hey, we're still partners, right? I mean, Christ, it's not like you're breaking my heart here." Though it had been a little broken, but Steve hadn't needed to know that. So he'd pointed at himself. "I love you." He'd pointed at Steve. "You love me." He'd spread his hands. "We love each other. That's great."

"Great." Steve had still frowned at him, disbelief dripping from his voice and written all over his face, and thus Danny had made himself push down his disappointment, wrap it up and stuff it into a dark corner of his mind, never to be looked at again. He'd done that, and then he'd taken two steps forward and slapped Steve's upper arm. 

Hard.

"Ow! Hey!" Steve had rubbed his arm with an expression of pure betrayal, but he'd stopped looking like only his military stoicism had kept him from crying. 

Danny had stabbed a finger at his chest, because sometimes you had to emphasize to make a point, especially with this guy. Besides, motion always trumped emotion in Danny's book, at least when that emotion was something other than a reasonable irritation with an unreasonable environment.

"Listen to me, because I won't say this again. Okay? I will spell this out for you, this once, and then we'll never talk about it again." He'd taken a deep breath. "You're my best friend. My daughter loves you. All right? You, you're family. This," he'd waved a hand between them, "this is solid, you get that? Huh? It doesn't change because you're a little more important to me than I thought."

And because that was both the truth and worth emphasizing again, and because Steve had still looked a bit like a little lost lamb with no home to go to, Danny had smiled again, more real this time, and closed the distance between them.

"C'mere. I love you." 

Steve had stepped into the embrace with a fervor that was, quite frankly, as gratifying as it was humbling. 

"I love you too, buddy," he'd murmured, his arms tight around Danny, and Danny had hung on like his life depended on it.

And they'd kept saying those words in the days and weeks that followed; three words that slowly changed from reassurance into simply checking in, another basic truth of life: water is wet, pineapples suck, Danno loves Gracie and Charlie and Steve, Gracie and Charlie and Steve love Danno. 

He had loved Amber, too, in his way, but probably more like the kind of love that comes from fun and familiarity, not the one he'd felt for Steve. Had kept feeling for Steve, through the next four years and the kind of drama that was usually only real on television. He'd broken up with Amber eventually, though by that time her name was Melissa, because being with her wasn't fair to either of them. Not to Danny, who wanted to be in love with her but couldn't manage it, couldn't even say the words. And certainly not to Melissa, who deserved someone who'd make her the center of their world. They both knew that Danny's world revolved around Grace, Charlie, and Steve, in that order, with Melissa a distant afterthought. 

So they'd broken up and Danny carried on loving Steve in a way that became almost comforting over time. It was a feeling that just... was. He didn't cry himself to sleep at night, or feel lonely, or pine away like some kind of lovesick... whatever. He still doesn't. He just loves the guy, much as Steve drives him crazy at times, and since even his subconscious seems to assume he's going to keep loving Steve until they're old and wrinkly, that's probably exactly what's going to happen. 

All of which does nothing, nothing at all, to explain why Danny currently has to suffer through a stench that's worse than that time with the pigs. Or the other time with the pigs.

"What... What the hell _is_ that, how can you even _drink_ it? Why, _why,_ I ask you, are you doing this to my liver?"

Steve grins over at him from the driver's seat and pointedly takes another slurp from whatever vile concoction he's discovered this time. Steve and drinks have a seriously skewed relationship. Exhibit A: the man puts butter in his coffee. Exhibit B: the sickly-green, stinking slop-in-a-bottle he's pouring down his throat this morning. The stuff smells like grass clippings and pineapple, two things that should never be consumed, least of all together. 

"It's a smoothie, Danno. Smoothies are healthy." Steve nods like he's just imparted truth from the heavens instead of a blatant lie. "They're good for you."

"You think smoothies are healthy?" Danny asks, just to be sure, because this, oh, this is going to be great. This is going to be fun.

"Do I think smoothies are healthy? Yes, Danny," Steve shoots back, already grinning and trying to hide it, but Danny's on to him, "I think smoothies are healthy. They're fruit and veggies. Fruit and veggies are healthy."

"I agree that fruit and veggies are healthy," which indeed they are, but, and here Danny has to raise a finger because, "but this isn't fruit and veggies. This is _pureed_ fruit and veggies. There's a difference."

Steve takes another obnoxious slurp and smacks his lips for good measure. "Enlighten me."

Being thus invited, Danny magnanimously shares his wisdom. "Okay, one," he stabs his still-raised finger toward the Camaro's roof to show that this is no longer a finger of you-poor-schmuck, this is now a finger of numerical value, "fruit and veggies contain sugar. Two," he adds a second finger, "smoothies are _pureed_ fruit and veggies that contain less fiber, meaning they're not as filling, meaning you consume more of them, which leads me to three," three fingers now, "you consume more sugar. Sugar isn't healthy."

"It's fruit sugar, and," Steve starts to say.

"Sugar is sugar," Danny puts in helpfully. He can be helpful, okay, he's a helpful guy, and dismantling Steve's delusions is the way he's chosen to help. 

" _And_ you're talking about juice, okay?" Steve signals a turn and pulls them onto the ramp to the Ala Moana Hotel's parking garage. "Juice contains less fiber. Smoothies are the whole fruit, full fiber, less sugar than juice."

"Oh yeah?" Danny asks.

"Yeah."

"You sure about that?"

"Yes, I'm sure about that." There's an empty parking space to their right. Steve maneuvers them into it with his usual flair, meaning too high a speed and too tight a curve. One of these days, they're going to scrape the paint off another car, and Danny will make Steve pay for the damage.

"Then please," Danny makes an inviting gesture at the bottle that still contains a third of Steve's smoothie, "do me a favor, huh? Check out the label." He undoes his seat belt and opens the door. "Tell me what it says."

He gets out of the car and pushes the door shut, leaning his arms on the roof to wait for Steve. A moment later, Steve gets out as well, lips pursed and brows drawn together as he stares down at the bottle like it betrayed him. 

Danny grins before he asks, in his sweetest voice, "Does it, and I'm taking a wild guess here," they both know he's really not, "but does it, by any chance, say 'pineapple juice' on that label?"

Steve ignores Danny as he tilts his head back to drain the last of his smoothie, and then tosses the empty bottle into a trash can that conveniently happens to be there. Danny's grin widens because yeah, that smoothie contained pineapple juice, like just about every other smoothie on this island. He's heard that rant from Grace; he knows what he's talking about. And he has to say, Grace gesturing sharply and drawing imaginary pineapples into the air while belaboring a point? Fills his heart with fatherly pride, it really does. 

"Come on," Steve says over his shoulder, briskly walking away like Danny's been holding them up. "Sooner we get this statement, the sooner we can get back to HQ."

And Danny could point out he's aware of that, thank you very much, since _he_ was the one who found their witness in the first place, but he's still basking in the glow of his win so he lets it slide. 

The hotel lobby is air-conditioned. Danny takes a moment to be grateful for the cool air as they walk in, out of the damp warmth that is seaside Honolulu in the morning. Of all the things he hates about this island, the climate is very near the top of the list. 

Steve ambles right up to the information desk and gives the receptionist his professional smile, the one that doesn't show any teeth because those only ever come out when he finds something really funny. Usually, it's something Danny has done, is doing, or has failed to have done or be doing and it will momentarily come back to bite him in the ass. Or Eddie getting him wet, that works too. In McGarrett-land, Danny dripping from an unscheduled encounter with water is the height of hilarity. 

"Hi," Steve says, "Steve McGarrett, Five-0. Mr. McKinney's room?" 

Ronan McKinney is a used-car salesman from Poughkeepsie who, by pure luck, happened to be filming the lobby just when some punk kid decided to rob the local Starbucks, at an angle the hotel cameras didn't cover. The team's got the footage, and the punk, but they still have to take the actual statement. And because Danny spotted McKinney and his camera on the footage from the hotel cameras, he gets to do the statement-taking. Steve's just along to make sure Danny doesn't get to drive his car. 

The receptionist pokes at his computer for a moment, then he looks up with a smile that is every bit as professional and phony as Steve's. Danny does not roll his eyes because he has made it his mission to support professionalism wherever he sees it, especially when Steve's nearby. It's a close thing, though. 

"Room 214," the guy says. "Take the elevator to the second floor, then go right." 

"Thanks," Steve tells him, and nods at Danny to fall into step beside him. 

Danny dutifully does just that, and waits until they've reached the elevator to mention, very casually, "Used to be you introduced me as well."

"What?" Steve pushes the button to go up. 

"Just saying. Used to be you said, 'and this is my partner, Detective Williams,' or something like that."

They're lucky; the doors open almost at once to an empty elevator car. 

"Are you feeling sensitive about this now?" Steve says as they step inside. "Do you want me to go back, is that it? Second floor."

"I know that it's the second floor, I was there, I heard the man talk." Danny pushes the button. The doors slide closed. "And no, I do not want you to go back. I want to know what's up with the not-introducing."

"Jeez, I don't know, I just didn't think of it." Steve crosses his arms and glares.

"Didn't think of it?" Danny repeats, incredulous. What, did Steve just forget about him for a minute there? What the hell?

"No, didn't think of it. What, that's an issue now?" Steve lifts his head a little higher so he can look down his nose at Danny. Danny feels his blood pressure rising. 

"Oh, believe me," he says, not quite so casual anymore, "if I made an issue of you not thinking about things, I wouldn't have time for my job."

"And what's that supposed to mean?" Steve demands, leaning forward, hands on his hips like he can intimidate the answer out of Danny if he just gets far enough into Danny's personal space. As if Danny has ever cowered away from him. Or needed any prompting to share his opinions, for that matter.

The car stops. Danny takes a deep breath and raises the finger of you-poor-schmuck. The doors open with a restrained little, _ding._

And somewhere to their left, a man is screaming like he's on fire. 

It's an ugly sound, high-pitched and desperate. Danny throws a glance at Steve, already reaching for his holster. Steve nods at him and pulls his gun. Danny does the same. Together, they make their way down the corridor. Steve is focused on what's in front of them, while Danny makes sure nothing comes at them from behind. A dozen quick steps take them to the door where the screaming is loudest. 

"Five-0, open the door!" Steve yells. Their only answer is another scream, this one fading to a gurgle. 

"All right," Danny says, putting his free hand on Steve's back. Steve leans into it as he shifts and kicks the door open without another word. It takes him two tries, but then the wood splinters, lock still attached to the door jamb. _That's gonna make the management happy,_ Danny thinks, and then they're in. 

The scene before them is grotesque. The room is small, the visible space around the bed dominated by a wavy carpet in an eye-watering blue. It's probably supposed to be an ocean theme, which, for a very-nearly-beachfront hotel, strikes Danny as overkill. The huge bed is covered with a comforter that used to be a light blue with another wave motif, but is now a blood-spattered mess. 

In front of the bed, a middle-aged white guy is lying on his back, hands still clawing feebly at his throat. His throat, which has been torn open, skin gaping with ragged edges, blood still flowing in weak, rhythmic pulses. A woman of the same age and complexion is kneeling, actually kneeling on the man's belly, knees digging into fat as she sways to keep her balance. She's wearing shorts and a green t-shirt, both soaking with blood. Her arms are red up to the elbows, and her fingers... Christ, her fingers are pulling at the guy's throat, skin caught under her fingernails. 

"Five-0!" Steve barks again, "hands in the air!" but it's like the woman doesn't even hear him. She snarls at the man beneath her, a wordless sound of pure fury, and digs in deeper. The man has stopped struggling, eyes glassy as they roll up to fix upon the ceiling. 

"Danny!" Steve is already holstering his gun. Danny moves to cover him as well as he can in the narrow space, as Steve grabs for the woman. He yanks her arms back to make her let go. She arches into it, twists her legs and kicks back at him with a strength she shouldn't have. Steve stumbles back but doesn't let go. Her face is a mask of mindless rage as she bites at him, missing his private parts by no more than a hair's breadth. Steve jerks out of the way and she uses the movement to break free of his grip and get to her feet. 

"Freeze!" Danny bellows, tracking her with his gun. "Hands in the air, or I will shoot!" 

The woman ignores him completely. She kicks again, and this time, Steve has nowhere to go. He's trapped between the bed and the wall, shouts out in pain as her foot hits him just below the knee.

"Whoa!"

His leg buckles and he dives down just in time for another kick to cut through the air above his head, but now he's on the ground, no room to maneuver as she snarls again. Her voice carries no intelligence, nothing human at all as she darts forward, her dripping fingers going straight for Steve's throat. 

Danny shoots her. 

He hits her twice, center mass, and she falls, goes down without another sound, crash-landing half on the fucking blue carpet and half on Steve's legs. Both she and her victim are very clearly dead. The sudden quiet seems absurdly loud, broken only by Steve's heavy breaths. 

"Jesus, Danny," he manages as he scrambles out from beneath her. He gets to his feet, bending forward to rest his hands on his knees as he stares at the two dead people on the ground. "What the hell?"

Danny can't seem to make his fingers loosen their death-grip on his gun. 

"I don't know," he says, laughter scratching at the base of his throat although there's nothing funny about this. He repeats it because he has _no idea_ what the hell, why is Steve even asking him, "I don't know."

His hands are shaking. 

He just shot an unarmed woman. In the back.

"Hey." Suddenly Steve is beside him. When did he even move? He grabs Danny's shoulder with one hand, closes the other gently around Danny's hands where they're still clenched in a white-knuckled grip around the gun. "Hey, Danny. Look at me." 

Danny swallows, and raises his gaze to look at him. Steve gives him a quick half-smile, there and gone, doing nothing to conceal the worry in his eyes. He's standing close enough for Danny to smell him, fresh sweat and a faint echo of aftershave. The hand on Danny's shoulder tightens. 

"You warned her," Steve says, slowly, enunciating every word like he's auditioning for... Danny doesn't even know. Something with clearly enunciated words.

His fingers ache. 

He sucks in a breath and wills himself to let go. Steve's hand is right there, ready to pull the gun from his slackening grip. 

"There you go, buddy." Steve puts the safety back on and slips the gun into Danny's holster, still so fucking close. Danny wants to sway towards him. He pulls back instead. Steve lets him go. "Come on, we've got to call it in."

"Yeah," Danny rasps, his eyes drawn back to the mess on the floor. 

Looks like they won't be taking McKinney's statement today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no knowledge of the Ala Moana Hotel's layout beyond a few pics from Google, except they've got a Starbucks in their lobby. Because that's what you need in your lobby when you're a three-star hotel. A Starbucks.
> 
> I'm also going to go with the hand-wavy reasoning of eh, what are consequences, because I'm nothing if not faithful to the show where it comes to shooting people.


	2. What's That Face?

Two hours later, the controlled chaos of the crime scene is starting to wind down. Pictures have been taken, evidence has been bagged, as have the woman's hands. She and the man, who turned out to be her husband, have been taken away as well. All that's left of their Hawaiian holiday are a bloodied room, some traveling detritus in the trash, and a handful of people in white disposable coveralls poking at their suitcases. 

Danny's watching the scene from the corridor, leaning against the wall opposite the door, arms crossed. Steve keeps drifting in and out of his personal space; one minute he's talking to the CSU guys, the next he's right there next to Danny, and then he's gone again to shoo away a few rubbernecking hotel guests. Danny absently keeps track of him. Most of his attention is still on the room.

They've sent Tani and Junior to take McKinney's statement. Junior because he can do with the practice, Tani to supervise. 

A small huff to Danny's right announces the arrival of Lou, settling in next to Danny like they're waiting for the bus. He's poking at a phone in an evidence bag. 

"Where's Steve?" Lou asks. 

"Took the elevator down," Danny tells him. 

The whole team does this. Can't find Steve? Ask Danny, he'll tell you. And the hell of it is that, ninety-nine times out of a hundred, Danny _does_ know exactly where Steve is. On the one hand, this is a good thing, reassuring, because when Danny doesn't know where Steve is, chances are good that Steve's in trouble. On the other hand, it implies a level of codependency that, unrequited feelings or not, Danny isn't sure he's comfortable with. 

Lou hums and gets down to business. 

"André and Julia Fischer," he announces with a nod at the splintered door, "from Luxembourg. Jerry says that according to her last emails with her sister, this trip was supposed to save their marriage."

"Well, that plan was a bust," Danny says. 

"Yeah, well. Looks like André was stepping out on her. Guess she got a little... upset."

Danny snorts. 

"Thing is, apparently her emails only mention one other woman. André's texts," Lou holds up the bagged phone, "make it at least three." 

"So our theory is," Danny says, "that she discovered the texts, got so mad she snapped, and tore out his throat with her fingernails?"

Lou shrugs. "Good a reason as any. The alternative is that she lost it for no reason at all. Somehow, I don't see that happening. Do you?"

Somewhere to Danny's right, an elevator door dings open. He scrubs a hand across his face, suddenly tired. He sighs, and says, "No. I don't."

Steve orbits back into Danny's space, holding out a bottle of water. "So what've we got?"

"Crazy Europeans," Danny says as he takes the bottle. He unscrews the cap and takes a sip while Lou explains their findings. At least it's not a fucking smoothie. 

Sometimes, he wonders where his insistence on police procedure has gone. Used to be they didn't blithely hack into a dead woman's email account simply because it's more convenient than to wait for a warrant. Then he remembers who he's been working with for the past seven-and-a-half years and stops wondering. Steve probably took police procedure out the back and exploded it with a hand grenade while Danny wasn't looking.

"So it's open and shut," Steve says, just as Danny's taking another sip.

"Looks that way," Lou says. "Twenty-three years of marriage, and all that's left is clean-up and paperwork." 

"Deep," Danny says. Lou shrugs again. 

"All right." Steve clasps a decisive hand on Danny's shoulder, like it's a commonly accepted signal that the conversation is over. Danny grimaces, but he lets himself be tugged away from the wall. "See you back at HQ."

Lou nods and Danny raises a hand in goodbye as he's dragged down the corridor. "I can walk on my own, you know," he says. 

"Sure," Steve agrees readily enough, but he doesn't let go of Danny all through the elevator ride and across the hotel lobby, only stepping away when they've reached the parking deck and the Camaro. 

"Do you wanna drive?" Steve asks, all fake nonchalance as he pulls out the keys. 

Danny makes a show of repeating, words dripping with incredulity, "Do I wanna drive?"

Because this is what they do. Steve tries to make sure Danny's okay by offering up the most sacrosanct of items, the car keys. Danny assures him that yes, he _is_ okay, by stepping straight into their usual routine. 

On the days he's not okay, when he doesn't have the heart to turn a simple question into a comedy of repetition, Steve bundles him into the passenger seat and spends most of the drive trying to get Danny to open up. Danny has no defense against Steve's earnest concern, none at all. Which means that by the time they arrive at wherever they were going, he's usually feeling a little better for having talked it out, and Steve has yet another piece of Danny tucked away for safekeeping. 

On the days Steve's the one who's not okay, Danny shares Steve's silence until either Steve is ready to talk about it or they get drunk enough to fall asleep. One of them will sleep on the couch and the other will make breakfast in the morning, and by that time Steve has usually worked through his issues enough that he can let Danny nudge them out of him.

"Yeah, Danny, that's what I asked." Steve makes a point of looking exasperated, pretending Danny can't see the smile hidden in his eyes. "Do you wanna drive?"

"Yes, Steve," Danny tells him, his voice overly polite, "I would very much like to drive my car, thank you for asking."

Thus, the exchange is completed and Danny gets to drive his car.

They don't talk much on their way back to HQ, apart from some bickering over the radio and if that traffic light was yellow or not. Steve points out whatever pineapple-related thing he spots, like the kama'aina version of I Spy, and Danny pretends to be annoyed about it. The rhythm of their back-and-forth is pure comfort, and when Danny parks the Camaro with a happy flourish, they're both laughing about tourists and their stupid, pineapple-shaped sunglasses. 

The rest of the day crawls by. Danny writes his report on the hotel murder and then goes to make sure that the Steve McGarrett Edition isn't completely different from his own. After a brief discussion about whether they should refer to the woman as 'apparently not of sound mind' (Steve) or 'nuts' (Danny), which Steve wins because he's ridiculously anal about what phrases can and cannot be used in official documents, they both file their versions and mark the case as closed on their end unless the autopsies lead to new evidence. Once they're done with that, Danny goes over McKinney's witness statement with Junior and marks that done as well, while Steve lets Jerry show him the latest conspiracy theories concerning the sugarcane mafia. 

After that, they spend a fun half-hour debating Thai (Danny, Tani and Jerry) versus Chinese for lunch (Steve, Lou and Junior), which Steve also wins by dint of claiming the title of Benevolent Dictator yet again. They eat, they fill out requisition forms, and somewhere in the middle, Danny gets a call from HPD. 

"It's about your case from this morning," Duke tells him. "We've had a similar one in Pūpūkea last night. Couple of health nuts went for a spa day at the Moana Lani, went back home, man kills his husband and then walks into the ocean. He was found dead hours later, that's how we discovered the other crime scene."

"Okay," Danny says, leaning back in his chair, "pretend I don't know where the Moana Lani is."

Duke chuckles. "It's on Kalakaua. Not that far from the Ala Moana Hotel."

Danny hums. "And you think those cases are connected?"

"I don't know," Duke says, "but the guy beat his husband to death with his bare hands. That's two murders without any tools. It's unusual."

"Yeah." Danny rubs his chin. "All right, send me the report, I'll have a look at the photos. See if anything jumps out." He thinks about it for a moment. "Is the tox screen in yet?"

"No, the lab is backed up. Gonna take a few days. Same with yours, I'd guess."

Danny tilts his head. "Actual few days or island few days?" he asks, and Duke laughs and hangs up on him. 

Danny grins and goes back to figuring out how many ballistic vests will need replacing _this_ month. 

Some indeterminate time later, Steve knocks on the open door to Danny's office. Danny blinks up at him, his eyes taking a moment to adjust from screen back to three dimensions. 

"Hey." Steve taps the glass. "Gonna call it a day, come on."

Danny looks at the computer clock. "It's four p.m."

"Yeah, I'm sure we'll find some way to make up the time," Steve says, rolling his eyes, "now come on." 

"Okay," Danny saves the document and tells the computer to shut down, "but you're the one who explains this to my boss."

"He'll understand," Steve says, voice dry, and Danny grins at him because he can't not. 

Having established that Danny's not on the edge of a mental breakdown, Steve is back to taking the wheel. Danny's okay with that; the last two hours have been boring enough to make his eyes feel gritty. Or maybe that's sand. 

"Wanna work on Steve's for a while?" Steve asks as they pull out of the lot. 

Danny thinks about another few hours spent sawing and hammering, and finds himself with a serious lack of motivation. He sighs and rubs his eyes, willing them to stop being so dry. His brain twinges with the faint beginnings of a headache.

"Can we just... take a break?"

Steve glances over at him. "A break?"

"Yes, a break, I need a break, okay?" Danny throws up his hands. "A night off. Do you think we can do that? Huh? Recharge a little before we return to the back-breaking work of securing our livelihoods for the future?" 

Steve mouths, _livelihoods,_ but Danny's not in the mood to play the thesaurus game. 

"I am tired, all right?" He brings his hands together, pleading. "So can we please, _please,_ for once, take a break? Please?" He pauses. "And for the record? We are _not_ naming the restaurant Steve's."

Steve stays silent for a while, and Danny prepares himself for the hundredth iteration of what his daughter, for reasons known only to herself, has dubbed the Naming Discourse 2K17. Well, 2K18 by now. Danny doesn't want to listen to Steve's opening speech again, but he will, because Steve's morning sucked just as much as Danny's, maybe more. If he wants to bicker about the restaurant, then Danny will bicker about the restaurant.

As long as he doesn't have to climb a ladder or measure anything today. 

"I got beer," Steve finally says, "but if you want me to cook something, we'll have to stop for groceries."

Danny loves that man.

"Babe," he says, heartfelt, "I'm perfectly happy for you to throw meat on an open fire."

Steve grins. "Barbecue it is."

They pick up some steaks, sauce, and another six-pack of beer. Steve stops at the produce section and raises his eyebrows. Danny shakes his head. Steve's eyebrows rise higher. Danny shakes his head again, more emphatically this time. He has salad practically every day, thanks to Mr. Vending Machine over there and his hypocritical concern for Danny's cholesterol levels. He can go without just this once. Steve shrugs and moves on. Danny hesitates, sighs, and grabs a box of small tomatoes in a variety of colors. He pretends he doesn't see Steve's satisfied grin when he adds them to their basket. At the check-out, Danny pays without grumbling, and Steve puts his hand between Danny's shoulder blades as they walk outside. 

The drive to Steve's house is spent in companionable silence. Junior meets them at the door, freshly showered and face flushed, clearly on his way out. 

"Sirs," he says, and the only reason Danny merely sighs at the continued 'sir' thing is that Steve adores this mini-him. 

"Junior," Steve says, lifting the six-pack a little higher under his arm. "Going somewhere?"

Now, Danny might be wrong. But he's prepared to swear under oath that Junior blushes even more. 

"Tani asked me to go see a movie with her," Junior says, which explains the blushing very nicely indeed. 

"A movie," Danny repeats, grinning. Chances are high that's a euphemism, though he's not sure Junior's aware of that. Tani seems to be the more proactive of the two. 

"What movie is that?" Steve asks, because he may have adopted Junior, but that doesn't mean he can't be an asshole. 

"She didn't say."

Danny elbows Steve in the side; carefully, because he doesn't want Steve to drop the beer. "You hear that, she didn't say." He motions at Steve to step aside so Junior can pass them. "Come on, Steve, let the guy go to his surprise movie date."

"It's not a date!" Junior protests. He's making it far too easy.

"Did I say date?" Danny puts on his puzzled face and turns to Steve. "I don't think I said date."

"You did, you said date," Steve says, making a show of looking regretful for a moment as he nudges his shoulder against Danny's, "but I'm sure you meant it as a figure of speech."

"Exactly," Danny says brightly, "a figure of speech." He takes an exaggerated step to the side and waves at Junior. "Go on, or you'll be late."

Junior looks like the only reason he doesn't kill Danny on the spot is that Steve, _inexplicably_ , his glare adds, adores Danny. It's amazing, the things people put up with for Steve. Danny never even tried to get Doris McGarrett forcefully evicted from the island, not even once, and he'd wanted to. 

He'd really, really wanted to. 

Junior goes with a stiff nod, leaving the doorway open for Eddie. The dog, finally allowed to lay his eyes on Steve, wags his tail excitedly. Steve crouches and puts the beer down to play a quick round of, "Hey, buddy! Who's a good boy?" complete with the accompanying ruffling of fur. Eddie barks, ecstatic, tail thumping against the wall with his enthusiasm. Danny watches Steve smile and thinks, _there's someone else who'll do anything to make you happy._ The thought hurts a little, but in the good way, the one that comes from too many emotions in too small a space. This, right here, Steve and Eddie on the doorstep, caught up in each other with Danny watching over them. This is too small a space for how much Danny loves them. 

Well, mostly Steve, but the dog too. 

"Should I start in on the tomatoes?" he asks before he does something stupid, like starting to cry. 

"Nah, I'll feed you," Steve says. He gives Eddie one last scratch behind the ears before he grabs the beer and gets up. "Come on, buddy, let's feed Danno before he eats you."

"You're hilarious," Danny informs him, and follows him into the house. Steve beams. 

Danny ends up eating most of the tomatoes while Steve fires up the grill. Steve doesn't say anything, but his smug grin is more than enough to let Danny know _someone_ is feeling very pleased with himself. He rolls his eyes and throws a tennis ball for Eddie until the steaks are done, so he won't have to look at Steve and his stupid face. 

They eat on the lanai, a place that by now is so familiar to Danny that he could as well call it home. He's spent more time here than anywhere else on the island. Late afternoons like this one, with good food and better company, though he won't tell Steve that. Early mornings with the sun barely up and Steve dripping after his swim. Nights with conversations like they rarely have during the day, sharing memories and silences and sometimes, sorrows. Some nights, Steve will start and stop his way through a piece of his childhood. Others, they just sit and drink their beer, listening to the sound of the ocean. 

Danny smiles and takes a sip of his beer. He likes this, the feeling that he belongs somewhere. More specifically, that he belongs _here,_ on an island he used to hate, with a guy he used to despise. They've come such a long way since then. 

To his left, Steve asks quietly, "What's that face?"

And Danny makes the mistake of looking at him. 

Steve's giving him one of those smiles, those rare ones without any mockery or teasing. Just an uptick of his lips, eyes going soft; just this, this _fondness,_ like he belongs here as well. With Danny. 

Danny's heart stutters a little. It does this every now and then, especially in moments like this, when Steve looks like he doesn't have a care in the world beyond what Danny might be thinking right now. It makes him swallow, because he's _not_ pining, but that doesn't mean he can't be wistful from time to time. 

Something must have shown on his face, because Steve frowns. He tilts his head, eyes flicking across Danny's features like he's studying his expression, cataloging it with the proper cross-references. And then his eyebrows raise and he just looks... perplexed. 

"What, still?"

It takes Danny a moment to understand what Steve means by that. When he finally does, he's not sure if he wants to laugh or cry at the fact that apparently, Steve McGarrett is baffled by the idea that someone might carry a torch for him for more than a week. Steve's a confident guy, most of the time, and it breaks Danny's heart that, while Steve is perfectly happy to flaunt his looks if he thinks it might get him what he wants, he somehow doesn't seem to get that it's his personality that draws people to him. 

And this, this is why Danny hates the McGarrett parents. Much as he feels for their tragedy, he hates them, _loathes_ them, for failing to recognize what a treasure they had before they went and fucked it up for their own, petty reasons.

He clears his throat, seeks refuge in anger, because that's what he does best. "What do you mean, still, of course still, what the hell, Steven?" 

Steve jerks back a little and blinks, like he honestly didn't expect Danny to snap at him. For some reason, this makes Danny even angrier. 

"Do I appear fickle to you? Huh? Did I somehow give you the impression that my feelings are fleeting in nature? Because you, my friend, you would be wrong!" He gestures towards the sky like help might come down from the heavens. Oh Lord, deliver us from this idiocy. "Besides, do I not tell you I love you at least once a week? What did you think that was, hyperbole?"

Steve flails, honest to god flails, spilling beer onto the grass in the process. Eddie sniffs to investigate, snorts, and runs back to chase the waves into the ocean. Steve sets the bottle on the table, hard.

"No! I don't know!" He blows out a breath and seems to catch himself, points at Danny. "You were with Melissa for years!"

Danny throws up his hands. "Yes, I was with Melissa for years! Because I," he gestures at himself, "am not celibate. Okay? I'm a social animal. I like companionship. And yes, I like sex." Steve's mouth falls open at that, and Danny rolls his eyes, changes track. "I'm perfectly capable of loving more than one person at once. I love my children, I love _you,_ for whatever crazy reason, and I loved Melissa. Kind of," he amends, but Steve either doesn't register that part or chooses to ignore it. 

"I know you can love more than one person at once," Steve says, louder now, "I know that!"

"So?"

"So, it's, I'm..." He waves a hand in his own general direction, like Danny's supposed to understand what the hell he means by that. "I thought it was a, a heat of the moment kind of thing."

Danny stares at him. "Heat of the moment."

"Yes, heat of the moment!" Steve nods and makes a face like, what can you do? "You know, adrenaline and..." He trails off at the expression on Danny's face. 

Because Danny has moved beyond angry. Danny has blown right past rage and hit furious. Heat of the moment? Heat of the moment! Yes, it probably _was_ leftover adrenaline that caused him to drive over and pour his heart out to Steve, but Steve thought, what, that he didn't mean it? That it was a sex thing? What? Heat of the moment! That stupid, blind, _fucked in the head_... moron!

Danny takes a deep breath and wills himself to speak at a normal volume. 

"Do not," he says, stabbing a finger at Steve, "not ever," another stab, "think you're not important to me. All right? Can you do that? Huh?"

And Steve, the gigantic idiot, has the temerity to say, "I know I'm important to you, Danny, I just thought..." 

"Shut up!" Danny drags shaking hand through his hair. "You don't think, you never think, that's your problem!" And that's not true, that's unfair, but Danny's not in the mood to be fair right now. Steve's been avoiding the mushy talk for the past four years, and Danny's indulged him. That's on Danny; he could've told Steve this when they were about to die on that boat, if Steve had let him. But no, Steve had been making one of his faces and Danny had caved like... like a fucking parking garage. And truth be told, Danny doesn't particularly want to talk about this, either, but hell. No more bullshit evasions this time, no hastily made-up ramblings about the restaurant. Steve needs to hear this and for once in his life, he is going to listen; Danny will _make_ him listen. 

"When I say I love you," he says, trying to sound calm, knowing he doesn't, "I mean _I love you._ Okay? I meant it four years ago, I meant it last week, I mean it now! Because I," he moves both hands at himself, fingers splayed, like he's presenting himself to a potential buyer, "am a self-aware person. I am a self-aware person who's aware of his feelings; feelings that, I might add, will not go away any time soon. And if you don't like that," he points again at Steve, who's watching him like Danny's a live grenade that might go up any second, "if you have a problem with that, then you, my friend, are _shit_ out of luck because neither am I! All right? I don't care if you like it or not, I'm not going anywhere! Okay?" 

He's shouting by the end, yelling really, but he doesn't even care. Because Steve is staring at him, and damn him, even like this, eyes wide and mouth hanging open, he looks beautiful. Danny has to acknowledge that. He isn't blind. And yet, he'd still love Steve if the guy was the ugliest man ever to walk the earth. 

"Yeah, okay," Steve rasps. He looks dazed, like he's been hit by his own truck. 

"Really," Danny asks, because that is far too easy. "You get that?"

"Yes, Danny, I get that!" Steve snaps, and that's better, that's a tone of voice Danny can work with. 

"Well, good!"

They're both silent for a moment. Danny grabs his beer and takes a healthy swig. With any luck, this subject is closed and will never, _ever_ be opened again. Because Danny is shit at this stuff too, okay, for all his pretending otherwise. Just because he looks like Mr. Sharing-is-Caring next to this guy, doesn't mean he's setting a new gold standard. Pouring his heart out to Steve has never been anything but painful. 

He should have known better. 

"I," Steve says hesitantly, "I love you, too."

Danny sighs. "Yes, Steve, I'm aware of that."

"I..." Steve licks his lips. "It's still not the same way."

Seriously, can he just shoot Danny? Put him out of his misery? "I'm aware of that, too."

Another long silence. Then Steve says, quiet and sad, "I'm sorry, Danny."

And that. That is... that's just wrong. Of all the things Steve should be sorry for, like getting himself shot at and dragging Danny into it and never, ever considering to not be a hero, this isn't one of them. 

"Babe." Damn it, now Danny's eyes are burning, because Steve looks so fucking guilty and it's wrong, _wrong,_ "you don't have to be."

Steve just looks at him, silent, skeptical. Lips pressed together, face drawn, eyes so fucking wounded it makes Danny want to bundle him up and keep the world away from him until it stops hurting him all the time. This is the face that kept Danny from saying good-bye to Steve on that goddamn boat. He has no guards against this face, none. 

"Listen to me." Danny falters. This is important, this may be the most important thing he'll ever say, but how, how can he explain this in a way that Steve will understand? "You love me. You do, I know that. Steve. I rely on that. The fact that it's not 'that way,'" he adds the finger quotes, hopes to get a smile, doesn't, "that doesn't make it any less. Okay?"

Steve tilts his head a little, and because even Danny has a limit for how emotional he's willing to get at any one time, even for this guy, he begs, "Now please, can we talk about something else? Anything else?" He points his beer in Steve's direction. "I'll even listen to you talk about the menu."

And there, there is that smile, even if Steve's eyes look suspiciously wet. "I love you, buddy."

"I know you do. Shows you've got good taste." Danny smirks, feeling lighter now that this conversation is finally over. He looks at Steve's pointedly raised eyebrows, rolls his eyes. "Yes, babe, I love you too. What, didn't I say it enough in the last five minutes?"

"I'm not sure, were you talking? I must have tuned you out." Steve grins at him, a bit shaky but real, and it's okay. They're okay. 

Christ, what a day. 

They stay on the lanai until dark, laughing and talking about nothing at all. Eddie jumps around their feet, utterly shameless in his begging for affection, zooming away when Danny throws the ball again. Steve educates Danny on what he thinks should be their restaurant menu, and Danny pretends to hate every second of it because at least half those ideas are complete nonsense that Steve's making up to get a rise out of him. The pleasant buzz from the beer fades, replaced by simply having fun. 

He drives home that night tired but, dare he say it, happy. He meant what he said, back in that dream about him and Steve on the lanai, old but still content with each other.

He wouldn't change anything at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Again, all my knowledge of Oahu basically comes from the internet. If I got something wrong, please tell me. Concrit is always welcome.


	3. Same as Yesterday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Kate for looking this over!
> 
> Please be aware that this chapter contains **explicit descriptions of the aftermath of lethal violence**. If you need to avoid that type of thing, I again offer to provide you with a sanitized version.

Danny's still in a good mood the next morning. It's raining buckets on his way to pick up Steve, he was out of milk for his cereal and didn't have time to make eggs, and the radio is playing some obnoxious pop song that makes him want to shred his eardrums so he won't have to listen to it anymore. He hums along instead. 

The Silverado is gone when he pulls up in front of Steve's house. Danny's good mood falters. Did Steve leave already? It would make sense for him to carpool with Junior instead of Danny, something Danny has very carefully _not_ mentioned during the past few weeks. He's not even sure why; it's not like he doesn't relish any chance he gets to drive his own car.

That's a lie. He knows exactly why he hasn't said anything. But after the shooting that nearly took Danny out of the picture permanently, Steve hasn't seemed particularly inclined to let him out of his sight unless he has to, so there's Danny's alibi. He can tell himself he's indulging his partner and hope that one of these days, he'll buy his own bullshit. Though it looks like that might have been rendered moot now, anyway. 

He sighs and hits the horn without any real expectation of a reaction. Seconds later, the front door opens and Steve dashes out, Eddie hot on his heels as they sprint through the deluge. 

Danny can't help it. He smiles.

He leans over to open the passenger-side door for Steve and makes no attempt to hide his glee. Eddie jumps in and hops on through to the backseat, shedding rainwater like dripping into Danny's car is the greatest thing a dog can do. Steve follows, scowling, clothes plastered to his body. As in, sticking to him like cellophane and doing nothing whatsoever to conceal even a single muscle. Danny clears his throat and looks away. 

It's far too early in the morning for this kind of thing. 

"Sure you won't get car sick over there, Rain Man?" he asks as he puts the car into gear and pulls away from Steve's house. 

"That's offensive, Danny." Steve's voice holds no rancor. If anything, he sounds amused.

Danny throws a quick glance at him. There are raindrops in Steve's eyelashes. Jesus. He clears his throat again. 

"You, uh, you got a change of clothes at the office, right? Because I'm not going to have you drip all over everything the whole day."

"And good morning to you too," Steve tells him, like this is how he spends every morning: soaked through and getting snarked at. Well, he does get snarked at every morning, at least when Danny's there. "I slept well, thank you."

Danny grins. "Not what I asked, babe."

"Yes, I've got a change of clothes at the office." Steve shifts so he can give Danny the stink-eye, but he's still relaxed about it. "I also have one in the trunk and another in my truck. Happy now? Will you give it a rest?"

"Yup." Danny pops the 'p' for added annoyance while he tries to remember how many towels are in the trunk. Although, come to think of it... "I think there might be a towel in the glove compartment."

"Really?" Steve leans forward to open the compartment, wet clothes squeaking on the seat. "Huh."

He pulls out the green towel that was Danny's way of preparing for dog-related accidents in his car. He's never needed it so far; Eddie has better manners than Steve does, even if he is currently creating a small lake on the upholstery. It's not a big towel, more like a hand towel than anything else, but Steve hums and starts scrubbing it across his head. Like he needs to get the water out of his hair, Jesus. It's like deforestation up there, the sad and desolate remains of a once-bountiful... no, nope, abandoning that train of thought right now before it derails completely and crashes into a ravine or something. 

"Junior taking the car today?" Danny asks to try and distract himself from the way Steve's biceps work under his sodden t-shirt. He's usually better at compartmentalizing. Yesterday's heart-to-heart must have had more of an effect on him than he thought. 

"Yeah." Steve runs the towel across his face, voice muffled as he adds, "he wanted to see if he could put a rush on some tox screens."

Manners. Steve must have some, but Danny's pretty sure he's never seen them.

"If he wants to rush tox screens," he says, "I have some he can rush for me."

"You do?" Steve starts patting at his chest. Danny focuses on the traffic around them, as a good driver should.

"I do."

"Why is this the first I hear about it?"

"I know this might shock you, Steven," Danny tells him, "but I do occasionally investigate things without you holding my hand."

"You do?" Steve asks again, fully earning himself the smack Danny gives to his arm. He laughs. "Tell me which ones, I'll text him."

He starts making a big production of pulling his phone from his jeans pocket. His jeans, which are dark with water and clinging to Steve's thighs like they never want to let go. Danny can relate. What, what did he do to deserve this?

"You're gonna drip on your phone," he says, in a desperate attempt to stop Steve fucking _wriggling around_ on the passenger seat. 

"I've got a towel," Steve says. He tilts his hips forward to get his hand into his pocket. 

Jesus wept. 

"All right." Danny slows for a red traffic light, but it turns green again before he has to stop. Driving. Driving is a thing he can concentrate on. Or work, work is good, too. "Uh, there's yesterday's case, for one. And Duke called about a murder in Pūpūkea where the perp committed suicide right after, I want that one as well." 

Steve pauses, phone in his hand but screen still locked. "You think the cases are connected?"

"I don't know," Danny says patiently, "that's why I want the tox screens."

"Okay," Steve says, but he's still not typing. The next red light stays red, so Danny turns in his seat to look at him. Steve is frowning down at his phone like it insulted the Navy. 

"Babe?"

Steve lets out a long breath and starts unlocking his phone. "I don't know, man, it's just..." He huffs. "Serial killers, you know?"

"Yeah," Danny says quietly. He does know. Some people snap and kill someone and that's bad, okay; he's done it himself and it was the wrong thing to do. It's always the wrong thing to do. But he gets it. Then there's the other kind of people, and those he doesn't get at all. It's like something is missing inside them, some indefinable good thing that, once gone, separates them from the rest of humanity. Those are the people who get off on killing, who need it to validate themselves or, worst of all, who think nothing of it in the first place. They are... bad. "Yeah, I know."

No to mention that serial killers have had Steve even more on edge than usual ever since that whole fiasco with Madison Gray.

They drive to HQ in silence, all the fun gone out of the morning. The rain has stopped by the time they arrive, and Danny gladly seizes the opportunity to give Steve a little space by taking Eddie for a walk. Eddie's happy for the chance to run around a little. They've done this often enough that Danny knows the dog won't get himself into any trouble. Besides, there's plenty of green space around the Palace, and Danny hasn't entirely given up the hope that Eddie can maybe pee one of those goddamn palm trees to death. 

As it turns out, Steve doesn't want any space from Danny. Steve wants to follow Danny into his office when he gets back. He wants to follow Danny into his office, puff up like a poodle at a dog show, and pull out a smoothie from god knows where, presenting the little plastic bottle with a flourish. 

"Want some?" he asks, like there's even a smidgen of a chance that Danny might say yes. 

"Do I..." Danny throws up his hands because this, _this_ is what he has to deal with. There's still a shadow in Steve's eyes, though, which is the only reason Danny doesn't shove him bodily out of his office. "No, I do not want some. In fact, I want you to go away."

He looks expectantly at Steve and makes a shooing gesture towards the door. 

Steve gives him that little half-grin, the one he pulls out when he's about to be a shit, and twists the cap. It snicks. The smell of pineapple and grass clippings fills Danny's office. 

Danny groans. Steve cackles, and darts out though the door just in time to avoid the stapler Danny's thrown at him. 

"Plastic isn't healthy for the environment! Where did you even get that?" Danny yells after him. There is no way Steve had that earlier. 

"Junior," Steve shouts back, laughter still in his voice, and okay, that settles it.

Danny's going to have to kill Junior. 

Olfactory assault aside, it's another slow day. Danny doesn't have anything real to do, although Junior assured him that his tox screens will indeed be rushed, so he spends most of his time texting with Grace. He doesn't feel guilty about it; there've been enough occasions when the proverbial nine-to-five started at nine a.m. on a Wednesday and ended at five, also a.m., the following Saturday. Between Will, Rachel, cheerleading, and the many obligations of a teenage girl, Danny hasn't seen much of her lately. She also keeps contact with Stan. For some reason Danny won't even pretend to understand, she and her erstwhile stepfather get along much better, now that he isn't with Rachel anymore. So if Danny wants to spend time with his daughter, he'll have to do it via smartphone. And with his goofy thumbs? Those exchanges can stretch over hours. 

That's not to say he doesn't do any work at all. He calls Eric to further rush the damn tox screens. He catches up with his e-mails, few as they are. He spends half an hour on the phone with HPD, scheduling a brief lecture he's supposed to hold about the chain of evidence and its importance in court cases. Apparently, the Captain thinks his people can do with a refresher. Why he chose Danny to inflict said refresher is anyone's guess. 

No one calls them to report a crime, which is always a good thing. Jerry suggests they go and have a drink. Tani's enthusiasm for that plan is a little worrying, but at least she'll drag Junior along. That kid seriously needs some relaxation in his life. 

And damn, did he just think of a twenty-five-year-old as a kid? When did he get so old? 

Anyway, they go out, they have drinks, Danny manages to needle Steve into an actual pout, which in turn makes Lou laugh loud enough that heads turn in their direction. They shout for Jerry to sing, which he does, a little bashfully. They have fun. 

Danny should have known it wouldn't last. 

At ten the next morning, his tox screens come in.

Their murder case and Duke's are connected. 

Danny sends Junior to find out more details from Eric and report back to him. He calls Duke and gives him the news. He has Tani contact the morgue to see if anything unusual has turned up on their end. He calls Lou over to the tech table and they go through the crime-scene photos together, but nothing stands out. They call Steve away from his phone call to the Governor's Office and go through the photos again. Still nothing. 

"There has to be something," Lou says. 

Danny's about to reply that he's welcome to look at the photos yet again, but Tani's arrival interrupts him. She's pale, holding her tablet away from her like it might keep whatever bad news she's about to impart at bay. Danny eyes her warily, but she doesn't get to speak, either. Junior barges in with his Navy Face on and doesn't even wait to get to the table before he gives his mission report. 

"It's an unknown chemical," he says. "The exact effects are still unclear, but it seems to be working as a disinhibitor. The lab's working to analyze it, but your nephew," he nods at Danny, "says it's going to take several days for them to identify its composition."

"That's not all," Tani jumps in, making everyone turn to her. "I've spoken to Noelani. She told me that she found some kind of drug in another victim. It's the same chemical."

She swipes at her tablet and the picture of a laughing young woman with brown skin and short, black hair appears on the screen in front of them. 

"Kalena Māhoe, no relation to the Governor. She was visiting the island from Moloka'i to organize a demonstration against mass tourism here in Honolulu. Housekeeping found her dead in her hotel room yesterday morning. Apparently, she died from a stroke. Like an aneurysm?"

Steve frowns. "A stroke? Did she kill anyone?"

"No. Noelani thinks the drug might have just overtaxed her system or something like that."

"The hell?" Lou asks the room in general. 

"Wait, wait, let me get this straight." Danny crosses his arms. Next to him, Steve does the same. "We have one drug, that causes people to murder their loved ones, commit suicide, _and_ bleed into their brains?" 

"Looks like," Tani says helplessly.

"Do we know how it was administered?" Steve asks.

"Not so far, no," she says. 

"Eric said it might work through ingestion or injection straight into the blood stream," Junior says. His face is grim. "Probably not airborne." 

"That narrows it down," Danny mutters, dragging a hand through his hair. "So we're looking for any needle marks, anything they might have eaten..."

His phone rings.

He looks at the screen and grimaces as he accepts the call. "Please don't tell me you've got another one." 

The room around him goes still. 

"We've got another one," Duke tells him. 

Danny curses. 

Steve asks, "Has our first crime scene been released yet?"

Danny forwards the question to Duke, who tells him no.

"All right." And there's Lieutenant Commander McGarrett, taking control of the situation. "Junior, I want you and Eddie at the Ala Moana Hotel. See if he can sniff something out. Lou, you're with them." 

Lou nods and jerks his head at Eddie, who's sat up straight at the mention of his name. "Come on, boy, let's find us some evidence."

He strides towards the door, Junior in tow and Eddie right behind them.

"Tani, I want you to call Jerry." Steve points at the tech table. "Tell him to find out if there's any connection between our victims. Meet us at the crime scene. Danny?"

Danny waves him off. "Duke, what's the address?"

"Waipahu," Duke says. "I'll text you the details."

"All right," Danny says, and to Steve, "Waipahu."

Steve claps him on the shoulder, already turning to walk out. "Okay, let's go."

The drive to Waipahu should take them about half an hour. Steve manages to shave six minutes off their driving time. If Danny finds any new gray hairs tomorrow, he'll know where to place the blame. 

HPD is parked in front of a small, but well-kept house, lights flashing. A small crowd has already gathered there, with people craning their necks to see what's going on. Steve pulls up the Camaro behind the cruisers, and Danny could swear he hears a murmur go through the crowd as they recognize Five-0, something to the tune of, "Must be bad if _they_ are here." He manages not to roll his eyes, but it's a close thing. 

Inside, in the living room, the usual crime-scene dance is in full swing. People are moving around each other with practiced ease, taking pictures and examining the room. It would be a boring room, all beige carpet and white furniture and pastel paintings on the off-white walls, if not for the violent red of blood soaking into the carpet, running down one wall. A man who looks to have been even shorter than Danny lies in front of the wall, Asian features shattered into something barely recognizable. Two steps away, by the couch, Noelani is crouched over a petite woman, also Asian-looking, also with her face smashed in. Danny swallows. Jesus, what a mess. 

His first impulse is to call Adam and ask him if he knows anything about their victims. His second impulse is to give himself a mental kicking, because sure, Adam will automatically know these people because they're of Asian descent and he's of Asian descent, and what the hell is _wrong_ with Danny?

"So what've we got?" he asks, partly to distract himself from his mental shenanigans. 

"Erika Kikuchi," Noelani says, and with a nod to the dead man, adds, "and her husband, Taiyo. As you can see, the most likely cause of death is blunt-force trauma." 

She points at the wall to a spot that has been liberally coated with blood. "As far as I can tell, that's the, uh. The murder weapon. So to speak." She clears her throat. 

Danny nods in agreement. "Looks like somebody smashed their heads against the wall until they stopped struggling."

Steve turns to him and tilts his head toward the room at large. Danny shrugs because no, he doesn't see Duke either. Steve raises his eyebrows. Danny crosses his arms because here's an idea, maybe Duke was called away, because police work doesn't stop in the rest of Honolulu just because something interesting is going on in Waipahu. Steve purses his lips and looks away. Danny does, too, only to catch the tail end of Tani rolling her eyes at them as she steps inside. 

Noelani doesn't seem to have noticed the exchange. 

"No, you see, that's what I thought at first, but look." She gets up and walks over to the wall, pointing at two particular smudges.

Danny squints at them. 

"Hand prints?" Steve asks. 

"Exactly!" Noelani beams at them. "And there's this." She leans down to point at one of the man's hands. The palm is brown from a thin layer of dried blood. "And this." Carefully, she turns the man's wrist until they can see the bloody grooves in his forearm. "Those marks were left by fingernails. I'm willing to bet that his DNA will match the tissue under her nails." She nods at the dead woman. 

"So, what, he beats her head against the wall, she struggles, scratches him, he wins..." Danny steps to the woman and crouches to examine the carpet by her feet. And yes, there are the drag marks. He indicates them to Steve, who of course followed right in his wake. "… drags her over here, and then...?"

He lets the sentence hang, waiting for Noelani to pick up. 

"Well." She shifts a little, clearly nervous. "I think then he went back over here, put his hands against the wall, and slammed his own head against it until he... couldn't, anymore. And then he bled out." Her voice trails off. 

Danny stares at her. A long moment of silence stretches between them, until Tani breaks it.

" _Why_?" she asks, her voice echoing the revulsion on her face. 

Noelani turns to her with a grateful look. "Okay, this is a theory? But we know that drug we found in the other, uh, victims? It acts as a disinhibitor. It lowers the person's inhibitions."

"Yes, that's what a disinhibitor does," Danny says. Steve's elbow hits him in the ribs. He winces, but doesn't twist away. 

"Right." Noelani raises a finger. "So what if the other compounds are designed to raise aggression? The couple you guys found, the husband was cheating on his wife, right? And Duke told me that with the other couple, the murdered man was also having an affair. I'm sure that these two," she waves at the bodies, "were also having relationship trouble."

"One partner feels betrayed," Steve says slowly, "and with their inhibitions down, kills the other one."

"Exactly! But then their partner is dead so they feel angry at themselves."

"And commit suicide," Danny finishes, feeling sick. 

If that is what the drug was designed to do, they're dealing with one fucked-up perpetrator. He exchanges a glance with Steve. They need to find the method of delivery, fast, and hope it leads them back to the source. 

"What about the woman with the stroke?" Tani asks. "Māhoe? She didn't kill anyone."

"Well, no, but she was single." Noelani bites her lip, her expression full of sympathy. "She might have had nowhere for the rage to go until it simply... overwhelmed her."

"That is so messed up," Tani says. 

"Yeah," Noelani agrees, and goes on to say something else.

But Danny isn't listening anymore. He's turned away to let his gaze sweep across the room, hoping that something might stand out. And something does; something that makes the ground drop out from beneath him and has him fight to stay calm.

"Tani," he says, very careful to keep his breath slow and even, "do you have the tablet?"

"Yeah, why?"

"The woman, the aneurysm case, did someone do an inventory of the scene?"

Tani taps at the tablet, and then holds it out to him. "Even better. The room was trashed, so they took pictures for the insurance claim."

Danny tears his eyes away from what he fears will be a crucial piece of evidence and takes the tablet, He flicks through the photos. Broken desk lamp, overturned chair with a leg splintered off, torn mattress with the stuffing pouring out, dented trash can with its contents spilled across the floor... Danny swallows. 

"Steve," he starts to say. His voice comes out faint and he clears his throat, repeats, "Steve."

Steve looks up from where he was examining the man's neck, probably looking for anything that might resemble an injection mark. "Yeah?" 

Danny doesn't know what expression he has on his face, but it makes Steve jerk upright and take a step towards him. 

"Danny?"

"Tell me," he says, shoving the tablet back at Tani and raising his hands in supplication as he looks at Steve because please, _please,_ "tell me you didn't have a smoothie today." And when Steve just stares at him, he adds, "Steve. Please tell me it wasn't the same as yesterday. Please. Please tell me you picked a different one."

"I had it before you picked me up," Steve says slowly. "I was out of coffee. What's that got to do with anything?" 

His brows are pulled together, like he can see that he should be worried, but not quite sure yet of the reason. Danny swallows. 

An empty bottle in a trash can at the Ala Moana hotel. Another two bottles, green dregs drying, on a kitchen island in a house in Pūpūkea. A crushed bottle in a ruined hotel room. 

An empty plastic bottle, sitting on a table by the window, glinting dully in the sunlight. 

"Steve," he says again, a one-word entreaty, and he might be wrong, Christ, please let him be wrong, but he knows, he _knows,_ deep in his bones, that he isn't. 

Steve swallows, his face paling as he glances to where Danny was staring and sees the bottle, because he's anything but stupid. "It was the same one."

Danny breathes out, closes his eyes, lets his head drop to his chest. Just for a moment, just one fucking moment, until he can breathe in again. _I might be wrong,_ he thinks, clinging to the possibility, _I might be wrong, I might be wrong, I might be..._

"Danny?" Tani asks. 

Danny inhales and pulls himself together. "Hospital," he tells Steve, and when Steve doesn't move, "now!"

It comes out too loud. The crime scene stills around them, everybody looking at him, at Steve, back at him. Steve jerks his head up and down in a nod, lips pressed together. Danny catches the keys Steve tosses him, already moving toward the door as he tells the rest of the room to, "Check that fucking bottle for contamination."

Behind him, Tani makes a sound of horrified comprehension. Danny doesn't care. 

He ushers Steve to the car, only keeps himself from opening the passenger door for him because he knows that Steve wouldn't take that well. He slips into the driver's seat, adjusts the seat, adjusts the mirrors. 

He feels sick. 

He pulls away from the curb, barely checking for traffic as he tries to plan the quickest route. It's going to take them at least twenty minutes to Queen's, probably longer, accounting for traffic. Or should they go to Tripler? Tripler is closer and has better research facilities. But the lab is already on analyzing the drug, and Queen's has better emergency care. Danny feels a laugh rise at the back of his throat, swallows it down. This, this is an emergency. Queen's, then.

They make it all the way to the H-1 before Steve speaks up. 

"You know, I feel fine."

"Uh huh."

"Look, I had one yesterday. Nothing happened." Steve shoots him a glance. Danny bites at his lower lip, pretending not to notice. "Maybe it's just coincidence." And when Danny still doesn't say anything, "I'm _fine,_ Danny."

"Yeah, that's, that's great." He's fine, he's fucking fine. Steve's _fucking_ smoothie, Jesus Christ, like Danny didn't _tell_ him those things weren't healthy. Danny has to stomp down on another laugh. He thought the danger was _fruit sugar_. "Let's, uh, let's let a doctor be the judge of that, huh?"

"Danny..."

"Will you please just... shut up?" The sharp taste of blood on his tongue, lip stinging. 

Steve sighs and shuts up, and Danny wants to take it back, wants Steve to keep telling him that he's fine, it's all going to be fine. He stays quiet, pretends to concentrate on the traffic around them as he tries not to imagine Steve drugged up, Steve in pain, Steve dying from a fucking stroke. Steve mindlessly attacking everyone around him and _then_ dying from a fucking stroke. He closes his eyes, just for a second, opens them again, blinks away the scratchy feeling. 

_I might be wrong._

He isn't wrong. 

Steve takes the news with a stony face, like Dr. Keahi hasn't just handed him a death sentence. 

"We're going to put you in quarantine for the time being." She smiles apologetically. "I know the lab is working to identify the compound, but until we know more, I'm afraid I can't sedate you. Much as I want to," she adds, voice full of sympathy. "We just don't know what the side effects might be."

Steve nods, jaw working. He sucks in a breath through his nose, blows it out again. Danny can see him shut down, one emotion at a time. "You'll have to tie me down."

"Steve." Danny doesn't even know what he wants to say. It doesn't matter anyway, because Steve doesn't let him go on. 

"I'm a trained SEAL. If I lose it, there's going to be damage." To himself, to others. He doesn't have to explain. Danny gets it. He gets it far too well. 

"I'll be here." It's all he can offer, and it's laughably little. His presence won't make either of them feel any better. But he can't leave, he just can't; he doesn't care if Steve wants him there or not. Danny's going to see this through to the end. 

Whatever that end might be. 

Steve rests his hand against the side of Danny's neck, thumb rubbing along his jaw. "Yeah, buddy." He tries to smile, but doesn't quite make it. "I know."

Then he walks away, leaving Danny to look after him, already missing his warmth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't yell at me. /o\


	4. Slightly Homicidal

It's a different isolation room than the one Danny managed to get shot in. It's smaller, for one, and only a single room. And yet, the basic set-up is the same. A thick, clear wall of plexiglass at the front, complete with a matching security door to allow full view of the room behind it. Inside, boring walls, boring floor, space for three or four beds if you put them close together. 

There's only one bed in there right now. On it lies Steve, out of his own clothes in favor of hospital scrubs and a pair of thick socks, staring mutely at the ceiling. He's tied to the bed with what seems to be every safety strap the hospital staff could find, and then some. They've hooked him up to one of those mobile monitors, blood-pressure cuff and pulseoxy clip and something that seems to be measuring his temperature. 

Danny thought that being able to keep an eye on Steve's vitals would be reassuring. Concrete evidence of Steve's continued existence. It should be calming, right? 

Instead, here he stands, hands in his pockets and nose all but touching the plexiglass as he watches the numbers tick up. Blood pressure: rising. Heart rate: rising. Temperature: rising. It's not reassuring at all; it's a slow counting up to Steve's death, and every time one of those numbers increases, Danny feels a little less calm. 

Every time one of those numbers increases, something inside him dies. 

He's no stranger to anxiety. He's not even a stranger to panic. This, this drawn-out progression of fear that makes his own heart stagger in his chest, makes him feel so sick he almost _wants_ to throw up... this is so much worse. 

Someone steps up beside him. He doesn't have to turn to know it's Lou; the lone hospital orderly who's supposed to keep an eye on Steve has been giving Danny a wide berth. Apparently, his reputation precedes him, or maybe it's the way he tore into the boy when he'd tentatively hit on Tani. Tani, in turn, has been haunting the halls with her phone, harassing lab techs and specialists and god knows who else into working faster, working harder, fucking _telling her what to do,_ and Junior is... coming up on his other side, okay, that's, that's great. The more, the merrier. 

It's not that Danny dislikes Junior. He's a smart guy, tough, unobtrusive. Overly formal, but that's the military for you. Steve's crazy about him, though he's probably projecting just a little, trying to give his younger self a purpose in life. That's okay, Danny can support that. Does support it, honestly.

It's just... Danny's a little jealous, all right? Junior's inserting himself into spaces in Steve's life that used to be exclusively Danny's, like Steve's couch, and Danny can't help feeling a little resentful about that. It's stupid and immature and irrational, okay; if there's one thing Danny doesn't have to be afraid of, it's Steve taking less of an interest. Steve's invested in Danny's personal affairs to an unhealthy degree, has been from the day they met. But there you go.

"How is he doing?" Lou asks.

Danny sighs. They've kept the intercom turned on so that Steve can ask for help if he needs it, though what kind of help these jokers think they can give is beyond him. Danny spent the first hour talking, rambling about everything and nothing in an effort to distract Steve, distract them both, until Steve finally snapped at Danny to stop it, just _shut the fuck up,_ looking horrified with himself immediately after the outburst. 

That was two hours ago. Danny hasn't said a word since. He's watched Steve run through what looked like breathing exercises, though they didn't seem to be helping. He's watched Steve tense and relax different muscle groups. That didn't look like it helped, either. He's listened to the small noises of discomfort that Steve probably didn't even realize he was making.

By now, those small noises have turned into ragged breaths. Steve's losing his temper in increments, and all Danny can do is watch and listen and be here, just like he promised he'd be.

"He's getting worse," he says, clipped. On the monitor, Steve's heart rate ticks up another two notches. His blood pressure follows. Both stats left their safe ranges a while ago. "And he can hear you."

Lou jerks his head to look at Danny, clearly startled, before he turns back to Steve. "Steve?"

Steve's reply is an angry grunt, followed by a sharp intake of breath. His fists are trembling, trapped at his sides. Danny presses his lips together. 

"Lord in heaven," Lou breathes. 

"Come on," Danny tells him, and tugs at Lou's elbow to get them both further away from the glass. "What've we got?"

Anything to distract himself. 

"Well." Lou is slow to tear his gaze away from Steve. "You were right. The bottles from the crime scenes all tested positive." He looks at Danny. "Jerry's coordinating with HPD; we're pulling that smoothie off the market. And the lab got back to us." Lou pinches the bridge of his nose. "Apparently, the drug contains traces of methamphetamine. Adam and Kamekona are checking their contacts to see if anyone new has broken into the market."

Danny rubs a hand across his face. "Do we know if this stuff is meant to be recreational?"

It wouldn't be the first time for some unscrupulous up-and-comer to test his product on unsuspecting consumers. One of the many, many reasons Danny hates drug dealers. One of the others being that designer drugs rarely come with an antidote.

"But it's lethal!" the orderly blurts out. Danny had forgotten all about him. 

He and Lou exchange a look, then Lou says, much more kindly than Danny could have managed, "Why don't you go over there," he points towards the glass wall, "and monitor the situation, hmm?"

The orderly swallows. "Uh. Okay. Yes. Um, sir."

He scrambles off and stands in front of the door, peering at Steve's monitor and completely failing to notice the dismissive look Junior gives him. 

"To answer your question," Lou turns back to Danny, "no, we don't know yet. We've got the employees and the manager of the smoothie manufacturer cooling their heels in interrogation. I thought I'd get Junior here," he nods at Junior, who immediately straightens and walks over to them, "to give me a hand."

"Yeah, good idea," Danny says, because the more people they have interrogating their suspects, the faster they can get some answers. "Take Tani, too, she needs something to do before our own lab techs decide to kill her." He tries for a smile, but even he can tell that it's wan at best. "And the owner?"

"The owner's the manager." Lou rubs his forehead. "I'm pretty sure we've got our perp in custody, just got to find out who. Unless the janitor did it."

Danny opens his mouth to tell him not to even joke about that, but a low moan coming from the isolation room makes him flinch and turn towards the sound. Steve's body is straining against the straps that hold him down; sharp, jerky movements that have Danny fear for Steve's joints. Steve's teeth are bared in a wordless snarl, glaring at the ceiling like he wants to tear it down and break it into bite-sized pieces. The monitor starts to beep in warning. 

"Jesus," Lou whispers, "can't they sedate him?"

"Side effects." Danny lifts his hand, but drops it again when he notices the tremor. What's there to reach for, anyway? "They don't know how a sedative would interact with what's already in his bloodstream." 

"It has to be better than this! This is killing him!"

Tani joins them again, eyes wide as she stares into the isolation room. Her hand flies to her mouth. "Oh my god."

Junior looks like he wants to smash his way through the plexiglass.

"Okay," Danny says, "all right," because they were talking about something, what were they talking about? "What, what about our last crime scene?" There's something there, something in what Noelani said. "Do we know why, uh, why the wife..." 

Steve screams. 

Danny's heard that scream before, on a video that he will never, ever tell Steve he watched. It's a terrible sound, full of helpless fury and the sure knowledge that this is it. Steve's going to die here. 

"She was asking for a divorce," Lou chokes out. "Jesus Christ, Danny..."

Danny closes his eyes. _Think,_ he tells himself. He's a cop, a good one, and there has be enough evidence by now to work with. There has to be. Four victims. One dead from a stroke. Three either shot by him or killed by themselves. The woman he shot, would she have committed suicide if they'd left her alone a little longer? Unclear, but likely. Why did she attack Steve? Because he pulled her away from her husband. Why did she kill her husband? Because he cheated on her. What about the second victim, why did he kill his husband? Because that guy was cheating as well. Last victim, wife wanted a divorce. It's like Noelani said, violence triggered by betrayal, followed by... what? Grief? More rage? 

Steve screams again. Steve's going to die here.

"Do something!" Lou shouts. 

"I can't!" The orderly sounds close to tears.

_Think!_

So the drug cracks a person's defenses, makes them angry, but it doesn't kill them. No, the rage does that, one way or the other, but Steve's not in a relationship and besides, Catherine isn't here. So ignore the domestic scenarios, concentrate on the lone woman. It's her inward rage they're dealing with; rage without direction, with nowhere to go, and what if you could _give_ it a direction and didn't put anything in its path to smash up against? What if you didn't have to deal with it alone?

Steve groans, low and choked-off at the end, like he doesn't have the breath anymore. 

What if you let the rage run into nothing?

Danny lets out a breath. Opens his eyes. Lets his shoulders drop as he straightens.

"Okay," he says, his voice wavering, but he knows now, knows what he can do, "all right, that's enough."

"Danny, what-" Lou begins, but Danny waves him off and starts to walk. 

He makes it three steps towards the door to the isolation room before the orderly grabs his arm and tries to pull him back, growing a backbone in exactly the wrong moment. 

"Detective, you can't go in there!"

Danny shakes him off, takes another two steps. The orderly reaches for him again. 

"I can't let you-"

Danny presses his lips together and wheels around. Pulling his gun from its holster is pure muscle memory at this point, the movement so fluid he doesn't even have to think about it. He points it at the orderly, who freezes mid-sentence, face white. 

"Danny!" Lou's hand flies to his holster, as does Tani's, but that's just good cop instincts. _Junior_ pulls his gun and raises it, although he hesitates to point it at Danny, and that's something they're gonna have to talk about. Later. 

"Now," Danny tells the orderly, or maybe he's a nurse; Danny doesn't give a shit. His voice is even, but his hands are still trembling, just slightly, but even that is too much. "Here's what you're going to 'let me' do. You're going to 'let me' go to that door," he jerks his chin at the door in question, "you're going to 'let me' go _through_ that door," he raises his gun a little higher, "and you're going to 'let me' do it without putting a bullet in your head. All right? Because believe me," his throat closes up and he has to take a breath, has to ignore the way his voice threatens to break, "if you don't get out of my way, that's what I'll do. Okay?"

The orderly swallows. "Okay. Sir. Out of the way. Got it." He takes an exaggerated step to the left, hands held out to the side. 

Danny tries to swallow, but his mouth is too dry. He lowers the gun, holds it out behind him, grip first. After a moment of hesitation, Junior takes it. 

"Danny," Lou says again.

"Don't. Just... don't."

Danny walks to the door, reaches for the handle. Behind him, Junior lets out a surprised huff.

"Sir. You had the safety on."

"Oh, you noticed that, did you?" Danny says over the orderly's sputtering. "Very good, well done." He wants to laugh, but if he starts now, he's afraid he's not going to stop. He hates this, hates it so much, but not as much as he hates the way Steve is twisting his limbs on the other side of that door, red-faced, like he might get out of those restraints if only he tries hard enough. 

" _Danny._ "

Danny pauses, hand on the door handle. 

"Good luck," Lou says.

Danny takes a shaky breath, has to blink several times before his vision stops blurring. He jerks his head down and back up again. 

"Do me a favor, yeah?" he croaks, looking over his shoulder back at Lou. "Whatever... whatever happens, keep that door closed behind me, okay?"

Lou presses his lips together and nods, eyes wet. "You got it, brother."

Danny gives him a pained smile. Then he turns around and steps into the isolation room. 

"Of course he had the safety on!" he hears Lou snap behind him.

Then the door locks and that's it, no getting out now. The moment Danny clicks the intercom off, the hospital's background noises grow muted, far away. Only the monitor keeps beeping its stupid, staccato rhythm. Steve lies motionless, head tilted like he's listening, chest rising and falling in quick, uneven gasps. His fists are clenched, tension clear in every line of his body, but he doesn't move, even when Danny walks over to the bed. 

"Steve," he says. It's all he _can_ say, his voice breaking on the simple word. 

Steve watches him from dark eyes, his face strangely closed-off. Calculating. Danny isn't even sure Steve recognizes him.

If he doesn't, this is going to destroy them both. One way or the other, they have to make it through this okay. If they don't... Danny swallows. If they don't, whoever survives this won't ever be okay again. 

The restraints are standard, thick velcro with pivots threaded carefully through the eyelets and fastened with locking buttons to secure them. Danny used to deal with them far too frequently in Jersey, back when he'd first started on the force, although those were mostly meant to keep the cops safe from the prisoners, not the prisoners safe from themselves. The corresponding key hangs at the foot of Steve's bed. Danny takes it and starts with Steve's right ankle. He frees it, feeling the heat of Steve's body through his scrubs and socks. _Don't think about it._ The left ankle follows. Danny focuses on keeping his breath deep and even. 

The muscles under his hand twitch when he undoes the bands around Steve's right thigh. Danny's eyes flick up to Steve's face, but the blankness of Steve's expression hasn't changed. He moves on to Steve's left thigh. This time, there's no reaction. Steve just keeps watching him. 

The wide belt proves trickier. The thoracic harness that keeps Steve from lifting his head is fastened to it, as well as the bands that tie Steve to the bed and the strap that runs between Steve's legs. Danny unlocks all of them with shaking hands, ready to duck out of the way if Steve chooses to attack him with his legs or head. Steve doesn't. Only the wristbands remain. 

"All right," Danny mutters to himself. He undoes the right band. Reaches across Steve's body and unlocks the left. The final pivot comes free with a faint metallic rasp as it drags along the edge of the eyelet. 

For a moment, everything is still. 

Then Steve moves, throws himself off the bed and straight at him, monitor cables flying and alarms shrilling. He's so fast that Danny, for all he thought he was prepared, has no time to react. He stumbles backward from the force of Steve's shove, and might have fallen if not for the wall a few steps behind him. 

His shoulders slam painfully against it, then his head. The impact drives the air from his lungs in a coughing rush. He tries to take a breath, but Steve's right arm presses hard across his windpipe, the left pushing like a steel band across his chest, forcing him still. The blood-pressure cuff is still around Steve's upper arm, torn free from the monitor, line dangling. Danny brings up his hands, to do what he doesn't even know; all he manages is an uncoordinated scrabble along Steve's sides. Steve's entire body cages him in, hot and solid, sweaty, chest heaving, keeping him against the wall. Even in scrubs, Steve is lethal. But Danny isn't helpless; he's wearing shoes, for one, while Steve is in socks, and his legs are still free. He could fight back. He _could_.

He won't. 

Danny chokes, ears ringing as he looks up, or maybe that's just the alarms going strong in the background. Steve's face is still that rigid mask, but his eyes, when Danny's gaze meets them, are filled with a fury so deep that Steve seems lost to it. They're close enough that he can feel Steve's heart hammering away against his chest, way too fast. Danny rasps in half a breath and it's surreal, the way Steve smells the same as always, warm and so fucking familiar it hurts. 

His hands brush lightly along Steve's sides as he lets them drop to rest against the wall; as he tilts his chin up to offer his throat.

Steve blinks. 

Then his expression shatters, eyes going wide and mouth twisting into something that might be anger, might be grief. He twitches back, just enough to make Danny swallow down some desperately needed air, sucks in a breath that is no less ragged than Danny's own. 

"What... the hell.." Steve's voice sounds wrecked, like it had when Danny had been shot. "What is _wrong_ with you?" His breath comes heavy, like he's run ten miles instead of pushing Danny half a dozen steps across the room. And those are Danny's own words, choked out as the hand on his chest moves up to twist into the collar of his shirt. "What... what do you think you're..." Steve's gaze is wild as he stares down at Danny. He's still so fucking close. "What the hell, Danny!"

Danny lets himself sag in Steve's grip, closes his eyes. His breaths hurt as they rasp down his throat. His heart is beating fucking triple-time. Jesus Christ. 

"So," he says after a moment, proud that his tone sounds almost conversational. "How, uh. How are you feeling?"

There's a beat of silence. Then Steve starts laughing, harsh and unsteady. 

"How am I _feeling_?"

And yeah, okay, that might be the stupidest question Danny's ever asked. 

"Yeah, babe." He tries to suppress the chuckles, finds that he can't. "Tell me how you're feeling."

God, what are they _doing_?

"I'm, I'm feeling a little cold," Steve says, hoarse and still laughing. "You know. Little hungry. Slightly homicidal."

For some reason, that's the most hysterical thing Danny's heard in his life. He cracks up, almost doubles over when Steve takes a step away from him, pulls the blood-pressure cuff off his arm and tosses it aside. 

"Slightly homicidal, huh?" They're both cackling now, helpless against it. The others outside must think they're crazy. "Must be... must be a day ending in y."

Steve makes an inelegant snorting sound that has Danny gasping for air, it's that funny. His eyes are watering. Steve doesn't seem to be faring any better, and it takes them at least a minute or two of helpless laughter before they get themselves back under control. Danny wipes a hand across his eyes and looks up. The monitor next to the bed is blinking like a demented Christmas tree, but it's the long, drawn-out beep that really gets to him. No carolers have ever been this shrill. 

He straightens and walks over to the damn thing, looks for an off-switch. None immediately jumps out at him, so he shrugs and just yanks the plug out of the wall. Blessed silence. He turns around, half-grinning in victory, but Steve doesn't return the grin. Instead, he's watching Danny with a serious expression, lips pressed tight and nostrils flaring. 

Danny's grin fades as he takes a step towards him. "Steve?"

Steve opens his mouth, licks his lips. Then he lets out a harsh breath and swallows. "Danny."

Danny feels his pulse pick up speed. "Yeah?"

"I'm really," Steve looks at his feet, fists clenching at his sides, and when he speaks, the raw tone of his voice breaks Danny's heart, "really fucking angry right now."

_Oh, Steve._

And this, this is the part of Danny's admittedly flimsy plan where, if Steve had come up with it, he'd be getting yelled at for being a suicidal idiot, and deservedly so. Because this is where he gives Steve's anger a direction; this is where he makes him snap. Which should be easy, right? Steve is halfway there already. 

_I'm sorry. If this goes wrong, I'm so sorry._

Danny pulls back his shoulders and inhales. "So, uh. Now's not a good time to talk about the waiting room then, huh?"

Steve stares at him. 

"I'm sorry." The words are slow, careful, like Steve can't possibly have heard that right. "The _waiting room_?"

"Yes, Steven, the waiting room." Danny flaps a hand in dismissal. "Just because you're slacking off in here doesn't mean we can ignore more serious issues. Like the restaurant."

Steve's mouth drops open at 'slacking off.' By the time Danny gets to 'more serious issues,' a faint flush is starting to color Steve's cheeks. 

Steve takes a deep breath. "Okay, first of all-"

"Oh, good." Danny rolls his eyes. "Multiple points."

" _First of all,_ " Steve snaps, "I'm not 'slacking off in here,' I've been _drugged,_ against my will, and second of all," his hand cuts through the air, "there will be no waiting room, okay, the waiting room is a stupid idea and I veto it."

"Oh, you veto it?" Danny asks, spreading his hands. "Is that what you're going with, you _veto_ it?"

"Yes, Danny, I veto it!"

"So now we get to veto stupid ideas, huh? All right." Danny gives an exaggerated nod and makes what his dad used to call the face of fake acknowledgment. "I veto calling the restaurant _Steve's,_ " he mimes setting the name on a platter and moving it to the side, vetoed, "because that's the stupidest idea of them all."

"It's not a stupid-"

"In fact," Danny goes on, blithely ignoring the way Steve is grinding his teeth, "the only thing even stupider than calling an Italian restaurant _Steve's_ would be to give it one of those idiotic Hawaiian names."

"Oh, now you think Hawaiian names are stupid?" Steve no longer just looks personally affronted, he looks like he's feeling pissed off on behalf of all things Hawaiian.

"Yes, I do, I think Hawaiian names are stupid, Steven! They're long, they're full of vowels, they _suck,_ okay?" And Danny is really glad that the intercom is turned off, because while he's never been shy about his dislikes, he's never quite taken it this far, and having to apologize to every Hawaiian he knows isn't something he's keen on. "Like this entire island, it _sucks,_ " he says, pacing now, pretending he doesn't see Steve's white-lipped fury, "with the heat and the rain and the fucking alohas, seriously, who uses a word as a greeting when it doesn't even have a clearly defined meaning, huh, how stupid is-"

He doesn't get any farther than that because Steve whirls around and kicks the bed with a wordless shout. The bed scrapes across the floor and Danny winces, but Steve's already turning on him and oh, _oh shit._

Steve slams into his space with the force of a runaway truck, or maybe a plane crash, and Danny finds himself hauled off his feet and pushed back against the fucking wall, Steve's hands twisting his collar. Absurdly, some detached part of Danny's brain points out that this Steve, red-faced with rage and trembling with barely-leashed violence, is still stunningly beautiful. 

Outside, muted by the thick clear walls, someone is shouting in alarm, but Danny doesn't even try to defend himself. Instead, he holds out a hand to signal that, whatever they're planning out there, they should stop it right now. 

All this training and experience are screaming at him that this wrong, he is crazy, he should _fight._ At the same time, every other part of him knows, bone-deep and without a doubt, that this is Steve. This is the foundation of the life that Danny's been building for the past eight years. Water is wet. Pineapples suck. 

Steve loves Danno.

"You always do this," Steve bites out, words so fast they almost seem to stumble over each other, "you nag and complain and it's driving me crazy, okay," his voice wavers, breaks, "it's driving me nuts, why are you even here," his breath hitches, fists clenching in Danny's shirt, "why are you," and he lets his head drop, breathing ragged, his anger at Danny running out of him like water spilled into the sand. 

Like it always does. Steve couldn't hold a grudge to save his life.

Danny's eyes burn as he reaches up to put his hands to the sides of Steve's neck, a touch so light no one could possibly mistake it for anything but fond. 

"And where else would I be? Huh?" he asks, as gently as he possibly can. "Tell me, because I can't think of anywhere."

Steve gasps out a wet laugh. "Still?" 

Danny closes his eyes for a moment, leans up so his forehead rests against Steve's. His beautiful, broken idiot. And when he thinks he can speak again, he looks right into Steve's eyes. "Still, babe. Always."

Steve shakes his head, just a little, not breaking their contact. 

"I don't get it." His voice is small, so lost that if Danny could give his heart all over again, he would, because this is something Steve would never say, would never admit out loud. But Steve's been drugged, bereft of his walls and helpless against it. Danny aches for him. And he wants to repay Steve in kind, to tell him all the things Danny himself would never say if they were anywhere but here, in this moment. Has to tell him. _Needs_ to.

"Because you're you." Danny flounders, tries to put words to something that's so fundamentally true it never needed to be described before. "You're, uh, you're kind." Two sentences in, and god, he's already messing this up, isn't he? "My kids love you, that's always a plus." 

Steve closes his eyes, and Danny hurries on, needs to plow his way through this clusterfuck no matter how badly he's managing it, or he won't manage it at all. 

"And you're smart, I mean, really, you are." Because how the hell does one put Steve into words? It's _Steve._ There are no words that could possibly be enough. "And so fucking brave, Steve, I love how brave you are, though it drives me crazy," his turn to shake his head, "it really does. Not generous, though, god knows you never pay for anything if you don't have to." He laughs a little. Steve doesn't, but his lips twitch the tiniest bit, unnoticeable if you weren't looking for it. Danny? Danny's always looking for it. "But you're always there for me. Okay? No matter what, you're there, and I'm, I'm counting on that, Steve. I rely on you being there, but you know what? I'll be there, too. Whatever happens, I'll be there." 

Steve's breath is coming in uneven gasps. His cheeks are wet. Danny loves him so much it hurts. 

"You picked me, remember? And it kills me that, every time I come to get you from wherever you've managed to get yourself into trouble," so many times, so many places, "you look at me like, like you're surprised to see me there." 

Danny's habit of blatant disregard for his own safety began the day he scrambled along an unstable cliff face to untangle Steve's climbing rope. It's only escalated since then. 

"Because I love you, okay? You're a good man and I, uh, I love you," his voice cracks, "and I, I, I don't know where I'd be without you. I really don't." He laughs again, and shit, now _he's_ crying. "Well, probably dead, what with all the shit that goes down on this island."

Steve shudders against him, his grip on Danny's shirt so tight the fabric creaks. Danny lets his thumbs drag across the sides of Steve's face, smearing tears into Steve's skin as he takes a steadying breath. "I want to punch you in the face sometimes," he says, just to see that flicker of a smile, there and gone, "but I love you. You and your stupid, self-sacrificing-"

"Danny," Steve interrupts him, eyes still closed, but he looks lighter somehow, less crushed by the world and everything it heaps upon him. 

"Yeah, babe." Water drops off Danny's chin. He ignores it. "Right here."

There's that smile again. "Always."

"Yeah." Danny loves that smile so fucking much. "Always."

Steve nods, but doesn't pull away. They stay like that for the longest time, foreheads resting together, breathing quietly. Steve's body is trembling. Danny doesn't know if it's the drug or the overdose of feelings Danny just administered. He doesn't care. Steve is right here, with Danny, and he's not dying, and that's all that matters. 

Eventually, though, Steve pulls back into himself and takes a step away. Danny feels cold from the loss of Steve's body so close to him, but he doesn't show it. He drags a hand across his face, both to rub away any excess salt and to give himself a second to get his mind back to a steadier place. 

When he looks back up, Steve is eyeing him warily. 

All right. Back to... whatever counts as normal for them. 

"Feel better yet?" he asks, the words dripping with nonchalance. Like what just happened was nothing, just Steve blowing a simple little getting drugged way out of proportion, like he is wont to do. 

Steve scowls. "Fuck you, Danny." But his breathing is steady and he seems to have stopped shaking. For the first time in hours, Danny allows himself to relax. 

He chances a look towards the plexiglass wall. Tani and Junior are nowhere in sight, but Lou has positioned himself in front of the door, back to the room. Everything about his stance screams 'guard duty.' 

Danny's going to buy that man a beer. 

Steve walks over to the bed and sits down, ignoring the dangling safety straps. "You think you're done oversharing for the day?"

"Laugh it up," Danny says mildly, "I'm not the one who was drugged by a fucking smoothie."

Steve crosses his arms. "You're never going to let me live that down, are you?"

And this, Danny knows, is all the thanks he's ever going to get. The tacit acknowledgment that Steve needed help, Danny was there to give it, and now they can ignore Steve's moment of weakness for the rest of their lives, please and thank-you. If their situations were reversed, he'd do exactly the same. 

Danny gives him a beatific smile. 

"Not a chance."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This! This is the scene I wanted to write from the beginning. And I wrote it half through a series of anxiety attacks and half under the influence of downers. Ladies and gentlemen, my asshole brain.


	5. Can I Try Something?

"I spy with my little eye," Danny says, "something beige."

Steve sighs. "Is it the wall?"

"Nope."

Not that this comes as a surprise, but it's singularly boring to hang around in isolation after the dramatic part is over. Danny's spent a fun-filled five minutes twiddling his thumbs, changing direction twice for added entertainment. Steve keeps glowering at the far wall like it's told him that no, he's not allowed to put butter into his coffee, and the dog can't stay, either. This is how highly-trained members of an elite task force keep busy when they're locked up together. 

"Is it the other wall?"

"Nope."

They're sitting side by side on the bed of many straps. Danny's feet don't reach the ground. The fact that Steve has yet to give him shit about that is a little worrying. 

This entire situation is a farce; nobody's sure if Danny might fly into a homicidal rage because he came into contact with Steve's sweat, and Steve still looks a little wild around the eyes. Danny, had he been asked, could have told the hospital staff that Steve's going to keep looking a little wild around the eyes until the case is finished and he's had a chance to process, maybe swim a mile or twenty. But nobody did ask him, and so here they sit, waiting for someone to come and tell them they are free to go. 

"Is it the floor?"

"Yep. Your turn."

The worst thing is that nobody's allowed into the room, either, and that... how is that a policy? Stick someone into a locked room and hope for the best? What the hell is wrong with these people? The only reason that anyone's running tests on them is that Lou had rolled his eyes and handed them a plastic box full of medical paraphernalia through the door. 

Drawing Steve's blood is _not_ an experience Danny wants to repeat. Steve, for his part, had pressed his lips together so hard they turned white, no doubt remembering the last time he'd been forced to spill Danny's blood. 

Jesus, but they're fucked in the head. 

Steve lets out another deep sigh. "I spy with my little eye something annoying."

Danny nods and pretends to contemplate that for a whole second before he replies. "'Annoying' is not a color, Steven." 

"Neither is 'drab,'" Steve shoots back, "and yet you wear it every day."

And Danny has a fantastic comeback for that, he really does, but the door opening interrupts him. 

"If you two jokers are done," Lou says with a grin, "your tests came back clear. You're good to go."

Steve's off the bed almost before Lou stops talking. Danny would take offense, but he's just as ready to get out of this room. This very small and, up until now, very locked room. Christ. It's like someone went through a checklist of things that will ruin his day and ticked them off one by one. 

Having Steve pat his hand and run him through breathing exercises is another experience Danny doesn't want to repeat. 

When Steve steps through the door, a cheer goes through the small crowd that's assembled in the hall. It's the usual suspects, and how sad is it that Danny knows what faces to expect in any given waiting area when one of them is in mortal danger? _Again._ But he smiles when Steve gets handed from Kamekona to Flippa and on to Jerry for a backbreaking round of hugs. Adam's next in line, then Duke, then Tani. Junior shakes Steve's hand, but Lou goes in for another full-contact embrace, as does Eric. Danny snorts, grinning. Steve's filling his hug-quota for half a year in little over a minute. The only ones missing are Danny's kids, but they really didn't need to know that their Uncle Steve was about to go nuclear on their Danno's behind. 

Kamekona marches over to Danny and unceremoniously drags him into a hug of his own. 

"Stop it, stop it, stop," Danny wheezes. 

Kamekona grins and slaps him on the back. "That was a good thing you did, bruddah."

He says it loud enough to prompt a chorus of agreement, and now it's Danny's turn to be squeezed and cuddled. He grumbles about them aggravating his barely-healed bullet hole, but his heart feels warm inside his chest. He catches a glimpse of Steve smiling fondly at the relieved chaos, and thinks, a little nonsensically, that no, he didn't do a good thing. His good thing is standing right over there. 

He's pretty sure he won't be seeing much of Steve tomorrow or the day after. They'll probably split up for the interrogation, and once that's done and they've caught their perp, Steve's going to make himself scarce. He always does this when he's confronted with a moment like this; he smiles and celebrates and then he disappears. And when he shows up again, he pretends that nothing has happened and they all let him. 

There's no one in this group who isn't at least a little messed up. 

But for once, Steve surprises Danny. 

"Hey," he says, suddenly in front of Danny, "come here."

And then Steve's arms are around him and the gathered group goes, "Awww."

Danny doesn't care. Steve's hugs are a rare and precious thing. Steve goes all in, folds himself around Danny and tucks his face against Danny's neck, breath hot on Danny's skin. It leaves Danny with a noseful of Steve's shoulder, familiar scent and warmth and a dozen different things that all boil down to one glorious, gut-wrenching feeling of _home._

"I love you, buddy," Steve mumbles, his hands steady where they rest on Danny's back, and okay, all right, maybe this day isn't a complete disaster after all. 

"I love you, too," Danny tells him, because how could he not? He loves this guy almost as much as he loves his own children. Steve knows this, but with that family background and half his life spent in the Navy? Danny thinks Steve should hear those words again and again and again, until one day maybe they sink in, and again after that. 

Steve gives him another squeeze and pulls away, eyes bright. 

"Okay, people" Lou drawls, "what say we go and solve this case?"

And just like that, the moment's broken. 

"Go ahead, we'll catch up with you." Steve's voice is all business. "I have to go get my stuff."

"I dunno, I kinda like you in scrubs," Danny says as their friends start to drift down the hall. "I've got my keys, I can drive us back to HQ."

Steve grins at him. "Yeah, no. I'm driving."

Control freak. 

The orderly from before is hovering near the wall, shifting from foot to foot as he waits for Steve to notice him. 

"I'll show you where you can change," he says, far too loud, keeping a nervous eye on Danny.

"Listen. I'm sorry about earlier." Danny twirls a hand in the air, encompassing the gun, the yelling, and anything else he might have done to scare the poor kid. "That was not proper police behavior."

However, his apology doesn't have the desired effect, because the orderly's eyes grow even wider at finding himself with Danny's attention. 

"No, that's, that's okay," he squeaks, and all but runs down the hall to show Steve to a private room. 

Danny pinches the bridge of his nose as Steve follows the kid with a mischievous look back at Danny. 

"Don't worry, Danno," he throws over his shoulder, "I'll tell him you won't jump out of his closet tonight."

"You're hilarious," Danny says.

Steve doesn't reply, but Danny would swear there's an extra degree of smugness in his swagger. He blows out a breath and decides that, just this once, silence is the better option. 

It takes Steve barely a minute to get changed, but it turns out they're not quite home free yet. Someone finally made up their mind that maybe they shouldn't let a guy who nearly died from the effects of an unknown drug just walk out of the hospital. Steve submits to a nurse checking him over, but he's growing more and more tense the longer the procedure continues. Danny almost expects him to start bouncing in place to get rid of the energy that's buzzing through him. 

"Will you please calm down?" he finally begs, because Steve's jitters are driving _him_ crazy.

Steve stills, but Danny can tell that it's taking an effort. 

He wants to ask what has Steve so on edge, but he's pretty sure he already knows the answer. Somewhere in the Palace's holding cells sits the asshole who almost got Steve killed. Danny wouldn't mind throwing a punch or two of his own. 

Steve all but runs out of the hospital once he's given the all-clear. Danny has to jog the last few steps to keep up. It's ridiculous, but still, he gets it. 

"You want to walk back to HQ?" he asks. "Maybe run a bit?"

Steve blows out a breath through his nose. 

"I'm good," he says, and gets into the car. 

Danny sighs, and follows suit. 

Steve drums his fingers on the wheel all the way to the first traffic light. And okay, it's been thoroughly established that Danny loves the guy, but this has to stop before Danny commits an act of violence. 

Maybe a distraction will help. 

He reaches out and turns the radio on. 

" _I'll be there with a love that's strong!_ " blares from the speakers. Steve makes a choking sound and turns a betrayed look at the radio. " _I'll be your strength, I'll keep holding o-_ "

Danny stabs his finger at the button, horrified, only to collide with Steve's hand when Steve turns out to be just that little bit faster. They share the quickest of wide-eyed glances before they both turn away. Danny barely hears Steve clear his throat over the rushing in his ears. 

Maybe they're both a little high-strung right now, but Jesus. He wants to _forget_ this morning, noon, and afternoon ever happened, not be forcibly reminded of it by a prepubescent Michael Jackson and his siblings. 

He launches into a rant about the first thing he can think of, which happens to be the blindingly orange pick-up in the lane next to them. That color is a whole new dimension of ugly. Who would even make a car this orange? Who would _buy_ a car this orange? This orange cannot possibly be in keeping with traffic regulations; someone should check that and save the eyes of their fellow motorists. 

Steve lets out a huff of a laugh but otherwise lets him ramble, throwing in a comment about pineapple yellow being a more fitting color for the streets of Honolulu, just to keep Danny going. Danny is on to him, has been from the first time Steve kept needling him for no obvious reason. Other people relax by dropping onto their couch and flipping through the channels. Steve does it by starting an argument over something inconsequential. Danny, who has himself been known to enjoy a good squabble, is happy to comply. 

Queen's being only a stone's throw from the Palace, their bickering carries them all the way into the parking lot and up the stairs, which Steve takes two at a time. 

"What took you so long?" Lou asks. The team, sans Adam, is clustered around the tech table, but the screen is dark. 

"Check-up," Steve says shortly, and points to the files Lou is holding. "Those our guys?"

"Two guys and a gal," Tani says. "The manager's a woman."

"Good for her," Danny says. 

Tani eyes him, like she isn't sure of his feminist credentials. 

Danny shrugs.

"Yeah, we've got two employees," Lou says, tapping the files, "one of them freshly out on parole."

"What'd he do?" Danny asks. 

Lou raises his eyebrows and gives him a meaningful look. "Drug trafficking."

"Okay, you take that one. Danny and I take the manager. Tani?" 

"On it," she says, and holds her hand out for the other employee's file. Lou obligingly hands it over. 

He gives the other file to Danny, who flips it open. The picture shows a white woman in her forties, her hair the kind of red that has a faux-romantic name and comes from a bottle. He starts to peruse the details, but looks up when Steve sends Jerry off with the order to, "Recheck their financials, okay?"

Jerry looks uncertain for a moment, gaze flickering to where Tani and Lou are disappearing around the corner, then over to Junior, who's standing uncomfortably beside the table with nothing to do.

"Yeah, I'll, uh," he points his thumb over his shoulder. He doesn't finish the sentence, choosing to turn and scamper into the safety of his office instead. 

Steve looks after him and shakes his head. 

Danny's about to ask if they're going down to interrogation or what, when Steve fixes his gaze on Junior. 

"Junior. You got a minute?"

Junior straightens, the very picture of eager helpfulness. "Yes, sir?"

Steve starts to speak, seems to change his mind, huffs, and starts again. "Look. I know that was a pretty bad situation earlier. Tempers were high..." He sighs. "But you don't point your gun at a member of your team, okay?"

Danny's mouth drops open. He hadn't realized Steve had noticed that little scene, let alone expected him to comment on it. Danny was going to pull Junior aside later and give him a speech about team cohesion or some other military-type crap. 

Junior's face falls. "Sir, Detective Williams was-"

" _Okay_?" 

This time, Steve's tone leaves no doubt that this is an order, not a suggestion. 

"Yes, sir," Junior says stiffly.

"Good." Steve nods at him, his voice softer when he says, "All right, go join Lou in interrogation, watch how he does it."

Junior looks like he wants to salute, but thinks better of it. He turns around and starts walking, back straight as a board. Danny opens his mouth to ask Steve how the hell he even knew about their little standoff, but before he can say anything, Junior stops and turns back to him. 

"Detective Williams?"

"Yeah?" Danny gives him a wary look.

"I apologize for pulling my gun on you," Junior says, voice clipped and face blank. 

Danny's eyebrows shoot up. Steve hadn't even apologized for getting him shot until Danny threw a tantrum. Looks like some SEALs do have manners. 

Who would have thought?

He looks at Junior and decides to be magnanimous. The kid deserves a break. "Apology accepted."

And there, finally, some of Junior's personality is allowed to shine through when he relaxes a little in relief. "Thank you."

He walks away, for real this time. 

"Uh. Thank you, Steven," Danny says, turning to the other bane of his existence, "but I could have done that myself."

Steve shakes his head. "It was better coming from me. Now come on, we've got a suspect to question."

Danny nods thoughtfully and doesn't move an inch. 

"You want to maybe look at the file first?" he asks, grinning when Steve turns back to him mid-step and won't meet his eyes. 

They look at the file first. 

Their suspect hasn't been cuffed to the single chair they keep in the interrogation room, but she looks uncomfortable all the same. She glares at them as they enter, but doesn't say anything, not even to demand her lawyer. That, right there, is one tally in Danny's mental Probably Did It column. 

He throws a look at Steve and slightly raises the file in his hand. Steve shrugs. Looks like Danny's going to be the one to start this particular tag-team event. 

He flips open the file. 

"Rita Winslow." he says, drawing out the name. "Says here you've got a degree in chemistry."

He pauses to give her a chance to speak. She doesn't take it. 

"Says also," he makes a show of perusing the file, "that you had a breakdown when your lab partner, who was also your husband, admitted to having an affair with your intern."

Steve steps closer to her, not quite looming, but not too friendly-looking either. "You didn't like that, did you? He humiliated you."

"You flew into a rage and nearly killed him," Danny picks up, "but instead of pressing charges, he made you a laughingstock in your field."

"So you came here to Oahu to start over. That's understandable; it's a very nice island."

Danny turns toward him, but keeps his gaze on the woman in front of them as he makes a see-saw motion with his hand. "I beg to differ."

Steve continues, seeming to pay no attention to Danny, "You came here, three months ago, to start a small company, making smoothies. I've tried them myself, by the way, they're very good."

"Again, I beg to differ," Danny says, because a) it's expected of him and b) hell, does he ever beg to differ. 

Winslow's gaze flicks to Steve, drops away again. She licks her lips. "You, uh, you had..."

Danny looks at Steve. Steve looks at him. Danny knows they're both thinking the same thing. No innocent woman would have a reason to get nervous over someone trying her drink

It really was her. 

"Funny thing," Danny says, trying to keep his temper in check because one of them has to, and it won't be Steve this time. "Don't get me wrong, he's not the most stable guy on the best of days. But his mood _really_ tanked after he had your smoothie."

"Why did you do it?" Steve demands. When Winslow doesn't reply, he gets right into her face. "We've got seven people dead! That's seven lives, people who didn't even know you, and for what? Huh?"

Danny puts a hand on his arm, and Steve pulls back a little. 

Winslow doesn't even seem to notice. Tears are spilling down her face. 

"You're right," she chokes out, "I'm a laughingstock. We were filming our experiment. The camera caught it all. My so-called breakdown. All of it. My husband..." she swallows, her fists clenching at the word 'husband,' "he put it on YouTube. He thought it was funny."

_What. The. Hell._

Steve looks as incredulous as Danny feels. "And so you, what, decided to get even by killing random strangers?" 

He glances at Danny, but no, in Danny's world, that doesn't make any sense, either. 

"He was a health freak!" Winslow rubs a hand across her eyes, but the tears keep coming. "He was so proud of his, his endurance! He taunted me, said he'd never make a fool of himself like that." Her voice, unsteady as it is, hardens. "That's why I chose smoothies."

Danny gapes at her. 

"Wait, wait, let me get this straight," he says. "You chose smoothies," he raises his right hand, still holding the file, tracing a vaguely bottle-shape silhouette in the air, "to get back at health freaks," he raises his left hand, palm up, " because your husband," he slaps the file into his upturned palm, "who lives _three thousand miles away,_ " he checks himself, lowers his voice from shouting back to something approaching civil, "is also a health freak."

Jesus fucking Christ. 

"Yes!" she yells. "Yes, I wanted them to break down like I had! I wanted to show him!" Winslow is sobbing now, her face turning red, but she still manages to glare at him. "You don't understand! I'm an internet meme!"

Danny blinks. "I'm sorry, you're a what now?" When she doesn't reply, he turns to Steve. "She's a what?"

"Like those pictures with funny captions Grace keeps sending you," Steve says. He looks relaxed, but Danny can tell he's barely holding himself back. It's in his shoulders, in the way that muscle in his jaw keeps ticking. 

"Oh, yeah, those are funny." Danny nods. "Don't you think they're funny, Steve?" 

Steve nods as well. "I think they're very funny." 

"They are, they're _very_ funny. You," he raises the finger of you-poor-schmuck, points it at Winslow, "you're not funny. Do you think this woman is funny?"

Steve's voice is hard. "No."

Winslow raises her chin, her gaze fixing on something in the middle distance. 

"I have nothing to say to you," she states, but that's okay. She's told them more than enough. "I'd like to call my lawyer now."

"All right," Danny says and, when Steve looks like he might go off on her, tugs at Steve's t-shirt. Just lightly, just a little pull at the small of Steve's back, a reminder that Danny's here, they've got this, they've got _her._ Time to withdraw. 

Steve swallows, hard, but he steps away from her, walks to the door without giving her another second of his attention.

"Someone will collect you for processing," Danny tells her. 

She gives no sign that she's heard him. 

Lou meets them in the hall, Junior in tow. 

"He didn't do it," he says. He takes a look at Steve's face and adds, "I see yours did."

"Yeah," Danny says, fingers on Steve's back, nudging him forward, away from the door. "Get someone from HPD to book her, will you?"

"Sure," Lou says, still looking at Steve. "Drinks later?"

Steve seems to shake himself. 

"Yeah, not for me, I'm gonna head home." He blows out a breath. "Junior, you keep the truck. I'll have Duke drop me off, it's on his way."

Danny rolls his eyes. Steve's not going to ask Duke for a ride; Steve's going to run home, on pavement, wearing boots that might work for sprinting, but were definitely not designed for jogging. He's going to spend the next three days being pissy about having blisters without _admitting_ he has blisters, and Danny's going to want to strangle him even more than usual.

"Don't be stupid," he says, "take the car. I'll catch a ride with someone."

"You sure?"

"I'll drive him home," Lou says. "You go and have a swim or something." 

Danny has to bite back a smile. He's not the only one who knows Steve well enough to tell how badly he needs to move right now. Other people love him, too, but try telling Steve that. 

"Okay, thanks." Steve claps Lou on the shoulder. 

"Do you want me to take Eddie?" Junior pipes up. "I wanted to try the 'Aiea Loop for running."

Which is SEAL-speak for 'please, sir, can I take the dog out to play, please?' After eight years, Danny's learned to translate Repressed into English. 

"Yeah, sure." Steve nods at them, hand briefly trailing along Danny's shoulder as he starts to walk towards the stairs. "All right, see you later."

"Okay," Tani says, coming out of the third interrogation room, "I know I worked a minimum-wage job myself, but this guy is just sad. He makes smoothies. While being allergic to pineapple."

She joins them and looks expectantly at Danny. "So, whodunit?" 

"It was the manager," Danny tells her.

"Damn." She pulls a face. "Now I owe Jerry five bucks."

Lou grins. "How about you buy the first round of drinks?"

Tani doesn't agree to buy the first round of drinks, but she does drag them to a bar that Danny's never even heard of. It's just a dingy room with a small counter and a fridge shoved against the wall. The fridge holds tiny bottles that are filled with colorful liquids. No labels on the bottles. Danny gives them a skeptical look, but Tani, obviously at home in this place, hands him something that's a deep, unnatural green. 

"If you ever get a cold," she says, "this stuff will burn it right out of your sinuses."

Danny takes moment to try and remember when he last updated his will. Then he shrugs, tosses back the drink, chokes on what tastes like pure alcohol with a dash of pine thrown in for shits and giggles, and, once he can breathe again, has to agree that yeah, no germ could ever stand up to that. Jerry looks intrigued, Junior wary, and Lou just laughs at the way Danny's eyes won't stop watering. 

Danny sticks to beer after that. 

He's pleasantly buzzed by the time Lou pulls up to his house, but no more than that. Relaxing with a beer or two is nice and all, but after the day he just had, he's honestly scared to find out what his subconscious might throw at him if he gets drunk. So he tells Lou thanks and goodnight, see you tomorrow, and lets himself into the house. Taking off his shoes, he eyes the pair that's already sitting there, and sighs. 

Steve is on the couch, elbows on his knees, looking over his shoulder as Danny comes up behind him. The room is getting dark, so Danny flicks on the light. 

"Hey," Steve says. There's a weird expression on his face that Danny can't place, but it doesn't look very reassuring.

He changes his mind. Screw his subconscious; he really should have gotten himself drunk. 

"What, uh. What are you doing here?" he asks, walking around the couch and sitting down next to Steve. 

"I, um." Steve scratches his ear. "Listen. I've been thinking."

Danny waits for him to go on. Steve bites his lower lip and looks up at the ceiling.

"Okay?" Danny prompts. And when Steve still doesn't elaborate, Danny nudges Steve's leg with his knee. "About what?"

"I'm getting to it, all right?" Steve blows out a breath and rubs a hand over the sad stubble that is his hair. "I've been thinking, and, uh." He drums his fingers on his leg. "I was wondering. If, uh, if you..."

He trails off with a frustrated huff. 

"Okay, this isn't working." He shifts on the couch so his body is turned towards Danny. Their knees bump together. "Look. Can I try something?"

"Like what?" Danny asks, wary. He licks his lips. "What do you want to try?"

"Just... let me try, Danny, okay?"

"Sure," Danny says, because if he's learned one thing in his life, it's not to argue with the crazy person. "Okay."

"Okay." Steve stares at him for a long moment. "Close your eyes."

"Seriously?"

" _Yes,_ seriously," Steve looks almost pleading, "just close your eyes, Danny, come on."

Danny sighs, but obediently closes his eyes. "All right, eyes closed." 

Nothing happens. 

"Now what?" he asks.

Nothing continues to happen.

"Give me a moment," Steve says.

"Damn it, Steve, I swear to god-"

He breaks off, because suddenly Steve's hand is on the side of his neck, big and warm and heavy and completely unexpected. Danny sucks in a breath as the hand slides higher, fingers dragging lightly against his ear as they move to tangle in his hair, thumb rubbing across his cheek. It feels like a caress, but it can't be, _it can't be,_ except something is dimming the light that falls on his closed lids and a warm puff of air hits his mouth and then.

And then. 

And then Steve is kissing him. 

Danny just... stops. His heart misses a beat. His breath catches in his throat. His thoughts come to a screeching halt.

Steve is kissing him.

Danny's fingers dig into the couch. His chest aches.

Steve is kissing him. 

Soft lips and gentle pressure, so careful Danny wants to cry. Steve kisses him like Danny is something fragile, like he's afraid to break him open. But Danny's not going to break, can't, because this is Steve, _kissing him,_ and, hello, maybe Danny should start kissing him back? So he does, tilts his head a fraction to the right and shifts closer, allows his hands to come up and rest on Steve's back. The muscles underneath his palms flex and then soften, tension draining out of them. Steve makes a tiny sound, a shivery little thing that Danny feels as much as he hears it, a slight vibration against his lips. 

And then Steve pulls back, and Danny is left in the light of the overhead lamps, blinking. 

"Whuh."

Steve looks wrecked, red-cheeked and damp-eyed, and the smile he gives Danny is shaky at best. 

"I, uh." He clears his throat, ducks his head, glances at Danny from beneath his lashes. "I may have underestimated how important you are. To me."

"You're serious right now," Danny says, dazed. He feels like, instead of kissing him, Steve's just hit him over the head with a shovel. He shakes his head, licks his lips. "Steve." He might be getting a headache. "Are you serious right now?"

"Yeah, I'm serious." Steve's smile grows a little wider.

"So you're saying, you're saying you feel the same way after all, same as me," Danny says, hand waving back and forth between them, "is that what you're saying?"

"Yes, Danny, that's what I'm saying."

"Okay," Danny says. His voice comes out faint. He doesn't... what is even... how, why, what is this, what... 

"Okay?" Steve gives him a skeptical look, but before Danny can say anything or maybe tear out his hair because _what the hell is happening here_ , Steve adds, "No, you know what, come here."

This time, Danny keeps his eyes open just long enough to see Steve's slide shut, to see the faint frown of concentration between them. Then he lets his own fall closed, because here Steve is, again, fingers curling into the hair at the back of Danny's neck, his other hand on Danny's arm, and his lips, his lips, oh... 

Danny feels like he's drowning, like he's sinking and not even trying to swim back up because this is Steve, this is Steve's mouth opening, just a little, and this is Steve's tongue licking across Danny's lower lip, and this is what Steve tastes like, and this is Steve sighing like some enormous weight just fell off him. And it's Danny, opening his own mouth to let Steve lick in deeper, taste him, no space left between them at all. It's Danny, moaning, clutching at Steve's stupid t-shirt and pressing in closer, greedy, because would have been okay with never having this but _Steve is kissing him_ and Danny laughs into it because what, what even, and Steve's lips smile against his own and he's home, home in a way he never thought he'd be, and Steve pulls back and rests their foreheads together.

"Damn it, Danny, stop laughing."

But he's laughing, too, bright and open, and he loves Danny back, and Danny can barely breathe his heart feels so full. 

"So, uh. Hey. Danny." Steve clears his throat, looking scared and hopeful. "Still?"

Oh god, that idiot. That wonderful, beautiful, utterly repressed idiot. Danny loves him so much. 

Steve loves him back. Steve loves him back the way Danny wanted him to.

"What are you even talking about," Danny says, his voice wavering but getting stronger as he dips into previously unknown reserves of indignation, "you, you're giving me a complex with that word, okay? That word has lost all meaning, 'still,' what _is_ the matter with you, huh?" And he'd throw up his hands, too, but that would mean leaning back and, no. No way is he moving. Not when Steve is still so close to him, breathless and grinning. "Yes, still, of course still! Do I have to record it for you?"

Steve smiles, drops a quick kiss to Danny's lips, to his cheek, his ear, his neck as he murmurs, "Just wanted to hear it again."

"You're an idiot," Danny tells him, cradling the back of Steve's head with his hand to keep Steve there, mouthing at the base of Danny's throat. It doesn't even feel like Steve is trying to start anything; he's just exploring familiar territory in new and spine-tingling ways. Steve's shoulders shake, breath hot against Danny's throat as he laughs. 

"Yeah, maybe." His thumb tugs Danny's shirt further open to get at Danny's collarbone. "Hey, Danny?"

"Hmm?" Danny tips his head back to give him better access. The stubble of Steve's hair is soft beneath his fingers, thin skin and hard bone underneath. "Yes, still."

More laughter. Danny's in so deep, he can't even see daylight anymore. 

"I love you," Steve says, his voice so fond and quietly happy, Danny wants to keep them like this forever. 

"Yeah, babe," he says, and closes his eyes again. "I love you, too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea if the Palace has more than one interrogation room, but it makes sense and I'm all in favour of lazy writing, so there you go. Nor do I know if Honolulu has any hole-in-the-wall bars like that, but I've been to one in Hamburg and the red stuff seriously burned my colleague's cold right out of him, so. Shout-out to you, grumpy bar-lady!
> 
> The song on the radio is, of course, _I'll be There_ as performed by The Jackson 5; something houseinrlyeh (thank you!) and I are reasonably sure might ~~cause a sudden attack of feels~~ play on a radio station that also airs stuff like _Sexy Eyes_.
> 
> Only the epilogue left to write! *\o/*


	6. Epilogue - There Isn't Even Any Juice in It

Danny has never been the wake-up-and-jump-out-of-bed type. He prefers to start the day slowly, chasing the last comfortable moments of not quite being awake before he gets up. As a frequent insomniac, he has a deep appreciation for that heavy feeling of laziness that comes after several hours of blissful, precious sleep. He'll run through his morning routine at an easy pace, have as nice a breakfast as one can have on a workday, savor his first cup of coffee before Whirlwind McGarrett crashes into his day, but before that he'll sigh and stretch and sink into the pillow for one last moment before he drags himself away. 

He likes to lie in, is the thing, and this? This is doing nothing to make him change his mind. 

Danny's on his back, with Steve next to him, probably propped up on one elbow. Probably, because Danny's keeping his eyes closed, but he can tell that Steve's lying on his side and the elbow-on-the-mattress is simply the most comfortable way to keep that position for any length of time. Steve has already showered, smelling of mint and Danny's body wash and detergent and, faintly, that plasticky scent of the carpet that lines the Camaro's trunk. So he's fully clothed as well, and that's a little sad, but Danny can't make himself care very much. 

Because Steve's really here. Steve is right here, right now, in his bed, and Danny _might_ , possibly, be tempted to slap himself to make sure he isn't dreaming, but then Steve would make him explain why and that is something he's not ready for. 

Truth be told, he isn't ready for any of this. He's so used to Steve loving him but-not-like-that, he doesn't know what to do with Steve changing his mind. This is gonna be terrifying once he wakes up properly, he's sure of it.

Which is another reason he doesn't want to wake up. He wants to stay here, too drowsy and content to panic, for the rest of his life. 

Steve is tracing the scar in the center of Danny's chest with his fingers, the touch feather-light, careful, warm. Steve has a matching scar, and yet for all his bitching about their shared liver, Danny prefers not to think about that too often. Because if he does, he'll feel his stomach lurch and his heart stumble, and he'll have to stop whatever he's doing and just breathe for a second. 

And maybe Steve has a similar problem, because Danny can hear his next breath hitch and his fingers move over to the fresh scars on the right side of Danny's chest. One from the bullet wound and subsequent surgery, one from a cut that Steve himself had made. And he doesn't know the exact time, okay, but he can tell it's far too early to deal with the shit life likes to throw at them. 

So he brings up his hand to stroke up Steve's forearm and turns his head enough to smile at the goof when Steve leans down to kiss the transplant scar. 

"Morning," Steve murmurs, his breath stirring the hairs on Danny's chest. 

"Hey." Danny keeps his eyes half-closed as he runs his own fingertips over the raised lines of Steve's tattoo where it pokes out from under the sleeve of Steve's t-shirt. It's a nice tattoo. Danny got to lick it last night. He likes the tattoo.

"You were out of milk," Steve says, voice still quiet, pressing soft, damp kisses up the line of Danny's sternum. 

"Mmmm," is Danny's answer, because that feels good. That feels so, so good. He tips his head back to give Steve better access to the hollow of his throat and curls his toes against the mattress. 

"I got you malasadas." Steve obligingly kisses the sensitive skin there, nips at it like he can't resist the urge to taste. 

"Uh huh."

Steve smiles against his neck, trails kisses up the side of it, along Danny's jaw. His hand rests flat on Danny's chest as he brushes his lips over the corner of Danny's mouth and yeah, okay, morning breath, Danny gets that. It doesn't make him _want_ any less. 

"Come on, up," Steve says, breath ghosting over Danny's lips.

"I am up."

Steve snorts. "I mean out of bed."

Danny makes a protesting sound in the back of his throat because this is good, this is great, why should he want to leave the bed?

Steve replies by biting Danny's chin and pulling away. 

Danny does not pout.

He continues to not pout through brushing his teeth, through taking a shower, and through jerking off _in_ the shower because if Steve doesn't want to make him come, Danny will just have to do it himself. He walks back into the bedroom and picks his clothes for the day, absolutely not pouting at how here he his, wearing a whole lot of nothing, while Steve's messing around in the goddamn kitchen. 

He is maybe, _maybe,_ not greeting the concept of them having to go into work with an overabundance of enthusiasm, but figures he might be excused. 

The coffeemaker is just finishing its death rattle when Danny joins Steve in the kitchen. Steve has pulled out two mugs, a bowl, and Danny's cereal to go with the brand new carton of milk that's sitting on the counter. Danny smiles in appreciation; an appreciation that lasts for all of two seconds before he sees the thing Steve is holding.

The thing being a small, clear plastic bottle half-filled with brightly green...

"Oh, you've gotta be kidding me."

"Danny."

"What the hell is the matter with you?" Danny's heart is jackrabbiting in his chest as he stabs his finger at the _fucking smoothie_ in Steve's hand. He feels light-headed; maybe this is the day Steve finally gives him a heart attack. "Didn't you get enough excitement yesterday? Huh? Is one near-death experience not enough for you? Should I find you a cliff to jump off next?" He mimes diving off a cliff. "A lava flow to cross?" 

"Danny."

Danny isn't done. "We could crash a plane into a beach, that was fun." He sucks in a breath, finds it doesn't hold enough oxygen. "Or how about a bomb, I bet we can find one with a nice, short countdown so you can-"

" _Danny._ "

" _What?_ "

Steve holds up both hands in his gesture of calm-the-fuck-down, which, since it's a gesture that a) has calmed Danny the fuck down maybe five or six times in the eight years they've known each other and b) displays the fucking smoothie even better, isn't actually all that fucking helpful. 

"You're obsessing, okay?" Steve says, all bafflement and indignation, like he couldn't possibly have seen Danny's reaction coming. "It's a smoothie, it's fine. I'm fine, you got to... Can you please stop?"

And that, that's just...

"You want me to stop?" Danny asks, just to make sure he's not imagining things; Steve really just said that. To him.

Does that man _know_ him?

"Yes, Danny, I want you to stop." And now Steve's starting to look frustrated, like he has any right to look frustrated, like he isn't the most frustrating person in Danny's _life_. "Please. Stop."

Danny inhales deeply and raises his own hands, ignores their faint tremor as he takes a step back. 

"All right." Danny nods and leans forward at the same time, a full-body nod to illustrate just how agreeable he's being. See if he cares. "Okay. I'm stopping. This is me, stopping." He holds out his hands, palms up; an invitation. "No, go ahead. Have a drink. Enjoy."

"You know you're overreacting right now, right?" Steve waves the hand still holding the smoothie at him, encompassing Danny's whole body in the gesture. "You know this isn't healthy."

"I would tell you what isn't healthy, Steven, but first of all," Danny holds up one finger of numerical value, "I know you won't listen to me, and second," there goes the second finger, and Steve can just take his hangdog expression and shove it, okay, he can fuck right off. 

"I listen to you, come on."

" _Second,_ " because Danny saw Steve tied down yesterday, heard him screaming, "you, uh, you..." and god damn it, he can't do this right now, he can't; he's not gonna end up crying in his own fucking kitchen, "maybe, maybe you're right. Okay?" He drags a hand through his hair, and it's _still_ shaking and Danny is tired, so tired of this. "Maybe I am overreacting. But you, you almost _died_ yesterday, so excuse me for being a little concerned, all right?"

Steve could have died. Danny could have lost him, and not even because of some spectacular stunt to save the world, but because of some stupid idiot's stupidity and pettiness. And Danny would've watched him die, _for nothing,_ and he would've had to find a way to pull himself back together, like that's even possible with Steve _gone,_ and now his vision is blurring, great; this is a great day. 

"Look, Danny," Steve takes a step forward, his voice softening, like he's talking to Charlie after a nightmare. Like he's talking to Danny when Danny is dying. "I'm sorry I scared you, all right? I'm sorry you had to go through that." Another step. "But not every smoothie I drink is gonna be poisoned, so you've got to stop worrying." He waggles the bottle, green muck sloshing around. "Besides, I watched her make it fresh, okay? I saw everything she put into that mixer." Danny closes his eyes as Steve brings the bottle to his lips, takes a drink. "There isn't even any juice in it."

Oh god. Fruit sugar. 

Danny scrubs a hand over his face, because this is ridiculous. This is stupid, okay; Danny should be happy right now, with Steve here in front of him, alive and chugging down some vile concoction that smells even worse than the other stuff. He should be trying to see if he can get Steve to make that smile again. That small, soft, hey-Danny smile that might not be as brilliant as his full-on grin, but that Danny loves even more because it feels like it's his. 

He makes an effort to let his shoulders drop, to calm his stupid heart and stop his hands from shaking. 

"While I am gratified to note you _are_ listening to me, _occasionally,_ " he says, gratified to see Steve relax as well, because of course Steve knows exactly what's going on in Danny's head, "that is so not the point. It's so far away from the point, it's not even in the same zip code."

Steve grins. "Not in the same zip code, really?"

"Yes, really." Danny eyes him. 

"Is it on the same continent?" Steve asks, trying to look interested but only succeeding in smirking. 

Danny is so relieved to have this asshole standing in his kitchen, it's embarrassing.

"Oh, great," he grumbles, "now you're mocking me."

"I'm not... I'm not mocking you," Steve is laughing, proving the lie better than Danny ever could, "can you just... come here."

He plonks the empty bottle down on the counter and reaches out, grabbing Danny's shoulder and pulling him in. And this, okay, this is the only way Danny's ever going to enjoy a smoothie: by licking the fruitiness out of Steve's mouth to get to the warm taste underneath. The puffs of Steve's continuing laughter hit Danny's cheek, and Danny has to pinch him for it because kissing now, mocking later. Steve retaliates by softly biting at Danny's lower lip. Danny can't quite swallow his groan because he likes that, likes it a lot, so of course Steve does it again. Danny puts his hand at the small of Steve's back and pulls him closer, _closer,_ and Steve just rolls with it, walks Danny back, still kissing him, until Danny's ass hits the kitchen table and Steve goes to nip at Danny's earlobe instead. 

"Steve," Danny starts, and then he gasps because ohhh, that feels good. 

"Hmm?" Steve mouths at the skin just below Danny's ear, tongue flicking out to taste, and Danny leans into it for a second or five before he remembers that he wanted to say something. 

"Steve!"

"What?" 

"There will be," Danny gasps again as Steve moves on to his throat, so glad that yesterday's misadventure didn't put any bruises there, "there will be no sex on the kitchen table, all right? It's, it's unsanitary and I won't," Steve's mouth, hot and wet at the base of his neck, "I won't," Steve sucking lightly and then biting down, "oh _Christ,_ do that again."

He's getting hard again. How the hell is he getting hard again? He brought himself off twenty minutes ago!

"Mmh-hmm." Steve hums, apparently having found a spot he likes because it feels like he's settling in for the long haul. 

"No, wait, Steve," Danny brings up a hand between them with the vague intention to push Steve away, but his fingers trail across Steve's chest instead, curling into the fabric there. "Stop," he breathes, "stop it, stop," and then he's laughing because what do you know, there goes his other hand, sneaking under the hem of Steve's boxers without asking for permission, "we're gonna be late for work."

"Nah, it's good," and now it's Steve's turn to gasp, sounding pleasantly breathless as he adds, "we have the time."

They do not have the time. Danny ends up foregoing his coffee and eating his malasadas in the car. 

They're still late for work. 

The team is standing around the tech table when Steve and Danny walk in, looking at them expectantly with a variety of smirks on their faces.

That is, until Lou takes one good look at them and raises his hands, already backing away. 

"Oh, hell no," he says, and disappears into his office, shutting the door behind him. 

There's a moment of silence. 

"What... was that about?" Jerry asks slowly, but Tani and Junior only shake their heads, equally puzzled. 

Adam, though, Adam is smirking. For that matter, so is Steve, and Danny just knows they can expect calls from Kono and Chin in the very near future, but he doesn't care because for some insane reason, _this_ is the moment his stupid heart realizes that this guy, this goof standing right next to him? This is the guy Danny will spend the rest of his life with. 

The thought takes his breath away. 

He reaches out without knowing he wants to, his hand bumping against Steve's, goosebumps running up his arms when Steve tangles their fingers together and squeezes. Danny looks up, helpless, ignoring the inhales and "Ohhhh!"s around them because Steve's smirk is softening, turning into his Danny-smile, and Danny loves him. Loves him from the bottom of his heart. Loves him blind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finished! As my good friend Eorlund Gray-Mane would say: gods be praised! 
> 
> I was going to type The End up there, but Danny vehemently protested that this is not an ending, this is the opposite of an ending, what the hell etc., so. _Not_ The End, but as far as I will tell this story.
> 
> Many, _many_ thanks for all the comments and kudos so far. This is one of the longest stories I've ever written, and you turned it from a chore into something I enjoyed.  <3
> 
> And one more thing, because I'm not sure I made it clear enough but what's done is done: Steve loved Danny the entire time, yes, but he really did switch over from friendship love to romantic love, with neither being any deeper than the other. He very definitely wasn't too repressed to realize that he was pining. (Not that there is anything wrong with that trope. I love that trope. But of the many tropes in this story, that one isn't part of it.)
> 
> Anyway, thank you all for reading and concrit, as always, is welcome!


End file.
